Legion of Camelot
by Kent Shakespeare
Summary: The Legion of Super-Heroes set in Arthurian times
1. Chapter 1

Legion of Camelot

A tale of the

Legion of Super-Heroes

in the Age

of King Arthur

**I:**

**The Sword in the Stone**

**The visit**

Nothing could spoil Sir Brandius' good mood.

The day's hunting had gone well, the season's crops were looking good after all, and the boys were finally at an age where they were more help than nuisance.

Not even the cold rain, slowly getting heavier, was enough to spoil his humour. He smiled, thinking of all the times he cursed the island's clime, longing for the warmth of Rome, or of his homeland.

Today, even the gloom made him content. _Perhaps an old Gaul can be at home in Britain, after all,_ he chuckled, as he dismounted. _After all, it's only taken thirty years._

He unpacked the three hares he'd shot before allowing the servant boy to stable his horse. _Luornu will make a fine stew of these,_ he thought.

The servant boy was still standing before him.

"Well? What is it?" he demanded.

"Y-You have a g-guest, milord," the boy managed.

Although new to Brandius' villa, the boy was not normally so meek as to stammer, and his master's good mood vanished at the prospect of whose company awaited him.

_Mordru._ The boy nodded, surprising Brandius, who hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.

Walking toward his residence, his step quickened at the prospect of the old wizard and Luornu being alone together inside. The cold of the rain should have sizzled on his skin from the rage now boiling from within.

"Calm yourself, my old friend. I was merely admiring your ward's... embroidery."

Rather than calming her patron, Luornu could see that the sorcerer's taking the liberty to call him "old friend" infuriated the old knight – just as Mordru knew it would.

She prayed that Sir Brandius would not be baited into being a dishonourable host. Not with anger, nor with brash accusations a man of his station should be above. She watched him collect his anger before speaking.

"Why, my sole concern, my _friend_, is that you've detaining her from fetching my _honored_ guest some wine and bread. It must have been a long journey indeed from Londinium."

Mordru's eyes gleamed like a veteran toying with new recruits in a game of throwing-stones — just before collecting all their wages.

Luornu scampered off in the direction of the kitchen.

"Come. Let us sit near the fire in the mean-time," said Brandius.

"Let us do so. We have many important matters to discuss," replied the guest. He continued, but was out of Luornu's earshot, as she entered the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" demanded her sister, in a loud whisper.

"You're not supposed to be here, Lu," she replied. "What if someone sees us together?"

"But the old man – I though he was going to-"

"He was trying to get Sir Brandius to do something improper. You know, like harboring two my supposedly dead sisters who _Bishop Vidar _would like to interrogate?"

She shoved Lu toward the secret doorway that led to the back gardens. "Now go!"

"Hey, Luornu! Where are you going?" called Rokk.

"Sir Brandius has a guest. I'm going to the garden to pick some berries to serve with his bread and cheese," replied the maiden, scurrying away.

"Luornu! Wait!" Rokk called again, but the lass had ducked around the corner already. "She acts very strange at times."

"You act very strange at times, I must say," jibed his foster-brother, Reep.

"At least _I_ don't look like an elfling," Rokk shot back.

"Why, you little runt!" he shot back, playfully jabbing the younger boy.

Reep was very sensitive about his appearance. His mother, they say, was a Pict, and he had that tribe's unmistakable dark, otherworldly complexion and features, including slightly pointy ears — but with one exception, his head was completely hairless. Yet strangely, by fire or moonlight, he looked quite normal.

Raised as brothers, Rokk and Reep fought as brothers do — sometimes for spite or anger, and sometimes for sheer fun. It would latter occur to Reep that this fight was out of something else — habit.

Even in the moment, something told him this would be their last such boyish fight. He was two years Rokk's senior, and manly responsibilities would soon be placed upon his shoulders. Most likely, he would be expected to serve in the army, as his father before him had.

Rokk should have a couple more years, he thought. But something told him otherwise.

These thoughts came to Reep has he had Rokk pinned down, holding his arms to the ground, letting him giggle and kick and flail.

"Boys!" His father's voice snapped both of them to attention, and they stumbled to their feet.

The man beside him, Reep surmised, must be the guest Luornu mentioned. The long beard and robed first made him think he must be a priest or hermit, but no, there was something else about him.

He also looked vaguely familiar, like he had seen him as a very young boy.

The guest studied him. "Is this he? The hairless one?"

"No," replied his father. "That's my son, Reep."

"Greetings, sir," Reep tried.

"Hrmph," replied the guest, who was refocusing on Rokk. "Ah. Now _he_. He looks like a-"

The man stopped himself. Reep's father looked on, disapprovingly.

"You were a wee babe when I last saw you, boy. I am called Mordru," said the guest. He refocused on both of them. "Two fine young boys. Ready to prove themselves as men, eh?" he asked, with a chuckle of feigned interest.

"Ready to go to war, protect your homeland? Even now, Khundish raiders are landing on British soil," Mordru continued.

"Not Rokk. He's too young," interjected Reep's father.

"Nonsense. There'll be younger on the field with him. We need everyone," he turned to his host. "Everyone, Brandius. The War Council stands united on this — all boys over 12. As a knight yourself, you understand the stakes."

_Khunds?_ thought Reep, still chewing it over. "So, the peace of Ambrosius is truly over?"

"It began dying the day it was brokered, boy. A Khund's word is only good until the next drink," Mordru sneered.

"Then I will be proud to fight under Ambrosius," Reep declared.

"You'll fight under the War Council. Ambrosius died a fortnight ago." Mordru almost seemed pleased with the fact.

Rokk and Reep looked to each other in disbelief, then to his father. Brandius' eyes told them it was true.

"You didn't tell us, father."

"I knew he was ill, and that it was only a matter of time."

"How soon will the three of you be ready?" asked Mordru.

"We'll leave with you in the morning," Reep's father answered.

"Then let us eat well tonight, for it is soldier's rations tomorrow and on," cackled the guest.

"You promise not to forget me?" Rokk asked.

"I forget nothing, you silly boy," Luornu answered.

"You forgot the berries." He saw confusion in her face. "The berries for Mordru. Yesterday in the garden you said you were getting berries to go with his bread and cheese."

"In the garden," she said, looking past him. "Oh, yes! I must have forgotten."

Rokk was slightly worried about her. This wasn't the first time she could not recall events or conversations she was part of. Moreover, those very incidents were the ones she seemed very nervous about at the time.

"I heard Khund blood is good for warding off ailments of the mind. I'll bring you some."

"Ughh! No thank you, mighty slayer of Khunds," she laughed.

Despite his brash talk, Luornu saw a tinge of uncertainty in his eyes. She hugged him. "You'll be fine. Just stab them before they stab you."

"He'll stab no one. You're only coming along to be my squire. You understand that, don't you, lad?" said Sir Brandius.

"Yes, sir." Rokk blushed at being redressed before Luornu. He was taken by her, and while she thought he was very sweet about it, she had no illusions. Her future included servitude, old maidhood — maybe the Convent if she remains lucky — but no knights in shining armour.

Sir Brandius turned to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. "You'll come with us to Corinium, and stay with the Sisters there." He looked questioningly at her.

"Yes, sir," she answers, also nodding to his unspoken question.

She placed her bag into the wagon, reaching under the canvass covering. Rokk, still standing nearby, heard someone sounding like Luornu say "Ow!" in a muffled voice. When he looked over, Luornu, looking embarrassed, said, "It's only a splinter."

Further raising Rokk's suspicion, she insisted on placing and arranging all of the wagon's cargo herself.

**Many are called…**

"You'll be sorry, boyo!"

The shout came from a hefty, weathered old northerner, probably from Eboracum. He was drunk, spoiling for a fight, and without a Khund in sight, had set his sights on a young Breton lad.

"I apologize for bumping into you. Now let us pass, and there'll be no trouble," Garth replied.

"Oh! _'There'll be no trouble!"_ mocked the man. "Laddie, you've found yourself some trouble. Now, are you man enough to use those swords, or are you just a pretty-boy out for show?"

"You'll be sorry," warned Garth's compatriot. "Even at his age, he's the best swordsman in all Lesser Britain."

"In all Lesser Britain, you say? Why then he's good enough to wipe my arse!" the man bellowed. "There's a reason they call it Lesser Britain!"

"You were warned," Garth quietly replied, drawing his sword.

The duel that followed was resolved quicker than the verbal portion had been, and it left Garth dissatisfied. Besting a drunken oaf was no challenge, and he was beginning to fear that his growing reputation might only lead to challenges from every sword that lacked a wit behind it.

"The lad moves like lightning," exclaimed one of the oaf's companions.

"Taranau," exclaimed a man, who to Garth's eyes appeared to be a nobleman.

He certainly caught Garth's attention. At home his people called him _Taranaut_, the local name for lightning.

"Good day to you," Garth greeted him.

"Good day, young knight. I am Marcus, duke of Cornwall. I could use another skilled arm among my officers."

"My thanks, but I am here with my brother Mekt's forces, from Lesser Britain."

"Ah. How is King Ban these days? I've not seen him in three summers, I fear," Marcus replied.

"They say those who pursue God's good works the best lose track of time. My father has been dead some five years now."

Garth had never seen anyone smile and scowl at the same time, yet Marcus managed to do so.

"Well. My condolences, although belatedly. If you'll forgive me, I must take my leave." Marcus and all but one of his aides departed.

"You know your way around blades far better than you do around people, my friend," his companion said.

"Take no heed," said the last of Marcus' men. "He turns cold faster than Cornish weather. Come, let us find ale to share." The fellow was scarcely older than Garth himself.

"I am Garth of Benwick, also known as Garth of the Lake."

"I am Thom, step-son of Duke Marcus. Come, let us talk."

But the Khunds had other plans. The sentries blew their horns, signaling that the horde of invaders had been spotted. Within minutes, the encampment was virtually empty.

The Khunds were very outnumbered, yes, but theirs was the side of experience.

Ambrosius' old guard was either dead, dying, or showing the strains of their ages on the battlefield. They were joined, for the most part, by lads barely sprouting their first facial hairs.

The Khundish horde, in contrast, was full of seasoned raiders, who, if not pillaging the shores of Caledonia, Britain or Gaul, were warring amongst themselves. They, too, were joined by young blood, but young men who grew up wielding swords and axes for survival — not some abstract threat, as the young lads of Britain regarded the Khunds.

This distinction was not lost on the young northerner warriors, like those of Lothian. In some ways they had more in common with the Khunds.

_These southern boys fight as if it were a hobby,_ thought the eldest son of King Lot. _Tis a wonder they've kept the welisc at bay this long._

In a single blow, he felled two large brutes. Nearby, a young man in Roman garb saw his sword knocked aside by a Khund downhill from him.

_The boy knows nothing of warcraft. He should not be here,_ he thought, moving to intervene.

Before he could, though, another knight interceded, cutting the Khund in half. "Well, met, knight of Lothian," called the fellow, before turning and diving into a new fray.

"Well met indeed," noted the bemused northerner, knowing the fellow was well out of earshot. "Perhaps these southerners have something to offer after all, eh?"

The Roman boy looked at him, not comprehending the words.

"Pick up your sword," bellowed Lot's son. "And tell me what knight that was. Was it the Garth of Ban's court, of whom I have heard such renown?"

"No," said the Roman. "Twas a knight from Cornwall, based upon his crest, I'd wager."

_Sir Thom of Lyoness,_ he thought, as he struck down another raider. _Perhaps there are worthy rivals down here._

Three foes later, he swung around to find a forth, but no one stood near him.

The few Khunds he saw were fleeing, pursued by a band of those same boys he thought to ineffective to win.

Even so, the field was full of moaning wounded on both sides.

"Kill me," pleaded the Roman boy. He'd tried to keep an eye on him, but the boy had to do his part, too.

Surveying the boy's wounds, he saw too many deep torso cuts. A long night of bleeding was the longest he'd survive.

"I salute you, brother," he said, before granting the request.

He gave no such salutations when picking off any wounded Khunds.

"It was here on the plains of Camulodunum where Ambrosius last fought the Khunds, and it is here that we win today," proclaimed Sir Derek.

More merchant than warrior, Derek was once one of Ambrosius' favorites, and he capitalized on that to rebuild the Morgnus family's once-glorious status among proper Londinium society.

His fellow members of the War Council had doubted not that Derek's main interest in fighting Khunds was purely to safeguard his own trade — and that he might switch sides if he thought the Khunds could better fill his coffers.

"A glorious victory, indeed. May we cherish this day, and remember how to stand together when needed without quarreling amongst ourselves," agreed King Wynn of Cumbria, hoping to divert yet another pointless argument would make the best High King of Britain.

King Lot smiled, grateful that Wynn did his work for him. Surely his sons would collectively make Gawaine the favorite.

"Wise words," agreed Beren, the revered hierophant of the Druids. While not a member of the War Council, his counsel was held in high regard by Ambrosius, and thus none dared speak ill of him — none but Bishop Vidar, that is.

"Come, let us return to Sir Brandius' pavilion, where we may properly celebrate today's deeds," said Zendak, king of South Cymru.

They descended from the hill where they and other nobles and generals watched the battle, toward a large tent by a wooded glade along the river.

As they approached, the servants and squires alike were caught in such commotion that few noticed the return of their commanders.

"What's going on here!?" demanded Zendak, grabbing the first kitchen-boy he came across.

"The sword!" exclaimed the boy, too tongue-tied to do else but point.

As he wheeled to look, his fellow warlords were already caught agape.

Brandius' pavilion was deliberately set up adjacent to Ambrosius' rock. In his last war against the Khunds years ago, his wounds made some whisper about who would replace him.

He took his great sword Excalibur, and thrust it into the rock, proclaiming he who could remove it would succeed him as king.

Many had tried, but none had ever succeeded in the 20 years since then, even while an aging Ambrosius still lived. Not the strongest, nor the bravest, nor the purest of heart.

But today, the sword was gone.

"Who?" whispered Zendak, barely catching his breath. "Who shall be Uther's heir?"

"Where is Dyrk?" asked Derek. "Surely twas my son who must have pulled the sword. He outshines all others; only he could have done the deed."

"Nay," said Lot. "It would have taken a hearty northerner to have done the impossible. My son Gawaine is stronger and more noble than a dozen of these southern knights."

"Not so," said Duke Marcus. "It must have been my son, Thom."

"Cease your braggartly ways, good sirs," said Brandius, arriving from the field with his boys. "T'was my foster son, Rokk, who lifted the sword."

Indeed, the knight's foster son held the ancient runed blade.

"Impossible!"

"Trickery!"

"No whelp without royal blood..."

"Brandius was correct in calling for silence," said Mordru, having arrived unseen. "Those who hold their tongues may listen and learn. Let only the fools judge without hearing."

"Speak your piece, Mordru," said Wynn.

"Thirteen summers agone, I delivered young Rokk to Brandius' care at the direction of Ambrosius himself, with orders that none were to know, until the lad proved himself."

"You're saying this Rokk is Gwydion, Ambrosius' sole heir? Trickery, old Wizard! The child died an infant!" cried Lot.

"Trickery, yes. But as the high king's will. The one Bishop Vidar — then simply Father Vidar — buried was a peasant boy who died of the fever. Ambrosius had me spirit the boy away, that he might grow to manhood," Mordru replied. "He feared someone would again try to poison his son," he said, eyeing Lot.

Lot's wife Morgause was sister to Ambrosius' wife Igraine, making Lot's family very close to the throne. _Only Igraine's daughter Mysa was closer,_ thought Zendak, also eyeing Lot.

"There is no proof that this child is Gwydion, or that he pulled the sword from the stone," a red-faced Lot charged.

"The boy can do it again," Mordru smiled triumphantly.

At the wizard's urging, an uncertain Rokk again placed the sword in the stone. Lot tried to pull it out again, and failed.

He was followed by several others, big and strong, those who claimed the most noble pedigree, and those reputedly pure of heart. All failed.

Zendak, who tried it himself once as a young buck, opted not to. He took a great deal of amusement at Derek's failed effort, though — and that Derek insisted on trying himself before letting his son try.

After all the kings, nobles, knights and all their sons who chose to make the effort failed, Rokk again pulled the sword from the stone, and held to overhead.

And when he again looked down, all those around him were kneeling.

The campfires were starting to ebb, while the smell of meade grew stronger.

Most of the men were far too inebriated to notice, but Reep knew who was missing. He limped up the hill, and found his brother and liege is silence, staring at the moonlit battlefield.

Reep sat beside him. In the dark, the sound of British warriors celebrating and toasting didn't sound so far different than the day's combat had. He could almost imagine they were listening to that battle continuing in the dark below them.

"Who's winning?" he asked, hoping Rokk imagined what he did.

"Mordru," Rokk replied. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he blurted. "I don't think any of this is right."

"How so?"

Rokk struggled for where to begin.

Out on the field, Sir Brandius' sword had broken, and he sent Rokk back to get a replacement.

At the pavilion, he found none - too many had been taken up already. A cloaked old man (one of the kitchen staff, Rokk surmised) told him there was an extra sword stuck into the stone.

"I'd never heard of Ambrosius' tale, Reep. Really, I didn't! I wouldn't have tried if I'd known."

"It's probably a good thing, then. We'd not otherwise known you're the king."

"But I'm not! I don't think the sword pulled out because of that!"

"Go on."

"Remember that time we were playing with father's armour, and you got stuck? I didn't pull the helmet off like you thought, not exactly."

"I don't understand."

Rokk sighed. "All right, then. Remember how much better I am fencing with a real sword than a wooden one? Or all the times I caught more fish than you — with _metal _hooks?"

Reep looked perplexed.

"I have a strange influence over metal. It's not much. It's very subtle, and gets weaker over distance... It hasn't helped my archery as much as my swordsmanship. I've always been ashamed of it. The priests warn us about sorcery."

Reep smiled. "How do you know Ambrosius didn't have this power, too? And was counting on you to use it to pull out Excalibur? Worry not about the priests. Ambrosius was a good man and a great king. You will be, too."

Rokk frowned. "But what if it's more of Mordru's trickery? I just can't believe it all. Verily, I can't."

"If Mordru had sole possession of magic, he'd be king for all time, and we'd be fighting him, not the Khunds. Do you think I'm evil?"

"No, Reep. Of course not."

"Look at me, then." Rokk focused on his foster brother, recognizing his voice, but not his face.

Under the moonlight, the boy next to him resembled Derek's son Dyrk far more than the Reep he'd known.

"Reep! What madness is this?"

"Wait a moment," Reep replied. The facade of Dyrk faded, to be replaced by that of King Wynn.

"I understand this not!" Rokk proclaimed. "Stop this at once!"

"Yes, my liege," Reep replied, only half jesting. "See? You are not the only one with freakish aspects. I can make my face resemble others. And as your gifts are limited to metal, mine are ineffectual in sunlight. You thought you jest, but I am part changeling after all."

Rokk took several minutes to digest this news.

"Bishop Vidar would have you killed as a demon," he said at last.

"Most likely. And you, too, if you weren't king."

Studying Rokk's face, Reep saw realization seep into his brother's face.

Rokk stood, and walked over the ridge, where the remaining campfires illuminated him.

"I guess someone should rule Britain with justice, then, and keep both the Khunds and the Bishop Vidars from doing their harms."

Lot's eldest son walked through the camp as the first light of dawn was washing onto the eastern sky.

Most were asleep or passed out. A few were still up, drinking or gambling or just talking. And, of course, a few sentries kept their watch.

The kitchen staff was awake, preparing the morning's porridge.

Some of the camp women still stumbled about, looking for the lad of which they'd heard.

They approached the young warrior. "Are you... him? My lord?" asked one. Some of them grimaced at the very wounds of which he held the most pride.

"I am not the one who _claims_ to be our king," he said with a sneer. _I could honestly tell them I am the new king's cousin and kinsman,_ he realized, but for once, he had no yearning for this sort of woman.

He strolled on, trying to think of all the wenches he'd wooed, all the court ladies he'd charmed, all the peasant girls he's dazzled.

But no. He was a man haunted by another sort of lady.

Luckily, thinking about his new liege provided a means of distraction.

He strolled on, into the small thatch of woods beyond Brandius' pavilion.

Excalibur was once again placed into its rock for safekeeping, and Brandius' two boys were asleep, wrapped in their cloaks nearby.

_I could kill you, little cousin. Father would most certainly approve._

He held the pummel of his sword for an eternity, staring at the boy, too young for even a whisker on his chin.

He turned his gaze toward Excalibur. Like many, he had tried to pull the sword that afternoon, to no avail.

For sport, he tried once again, and was not surprised when he failed.

_Certainly the boy is the old wizard's choice for the throne. Does he fancy that the lad will be easier to control? Or is Brandius in on the deed?_

_Father was Uther's most loyal vassal. Yet here we are, the villains, if we try to stop Mordru from cheating us out of our rightful inheritance._

_Damn him! Damn them all!_

He slowly, quietly pulled his sword, and held it above the sleeping Rokk.

But he couldn't.

_I'm not that much my father,_ he thought at first, then tried to erase the thought from his head, hating himself for the unspoken disloyalty.

He devised a better excuse. _What if I'm playing into Mordru's hands?_

"Well, young cousin. We shall see what kind of king you can be, after all," he whispered, walking away.

Reep relaxed the grip on his dagger, but remained awake.

**Family plots**

The way that the barge moved silently across the water, not even scuffing or bristling the reeds, never ceased to amaze Jecka, even though she'd experienced it regularly for more than half her young life.

The barge was rowed by four accomplished priestesses-in-training, under her supervision, just as she had once had to row under another priestess' gaze, with no concession granted due to her title.

One could not row the Crossing without knowing precisely where to turn, and when. A boat would become lost in other realms, or, at best, find itself overturned on the shores near Glastonbury, where the priestess' link to the outer world lies.

To row the Crossing, a priestess needed to learn all four parts with precision. Other than supervision, Jecka's role, she believed, was to make it appear to visitors that she was the one guiding the barge along the route, and distract visitors from the simple truth that the rowers' held their fate in their oars.

The mists along the route thicken, and one loses site of the shores immediately. The bells of Glastonbury then fade, and one is enshrouded entirely by mist. One cannot see or hear the water through the crucial channel, until one suddenly arrives at Avalon, on the Priestess Island's shore.

Jecka thought she would not normally need to go through the motions and rituals associated with the Passage, given that their sole passenger was Beren. If he wanted to usurp the Priestess' secrets, he'd have done so long ago.

_And is it not a wonder he has not?_ she thought. While she bore no grudge against the old Druid, she was tiring of anything she perceived as illusions — and lately, that was almost everything.

She questioned, also, why Beren would come by barge to Avalon, when most of the Druids go directly to the Druid Isle through the Grove Path in Cymru? Did he not want his fellow Druids to know he visits the priestesses?

Just as the mists gave way, the barge landed, and several junior students tied it to the mooring posts, while others placed the gang plank down.

And as the barge party came ashore, the mists were gone as if they'd never been. Beren and the oar crew uttered a small prayer, but to Jecka, it was just another illusion.

"Greetings, Lord Druid Beren, my old friend. Welcome back to Avalon," said Lady Kiwa, leading a procession of maidens.

"My lady!" beamed Beren. "Would that I never had to bother with the outside world, and could spend my days in your company!"

"Flatterer!" Kiwa returned.

Jecka tuned out their further flowery greetings. More illusions, she scowled.

With Beren settled in the visitor's cottage, Jecka went about her duties, overseeing trainees doing the various rituals she had learned, over and over. As one of the eldest maiden priestesses, these duties largely fell to her.

_Mysa, you should be here. This is your path, not mine,_ she thought. The girl that had been almost her sister was gone, though, and Kiwa had simply expected Jecka to step into Mysa's place.

And now there was talk of a new king — one that Kiwa would want to hold the strings to. And Jecka suspected she was lined up to be one of those strings.

Her father, Voxv of North Cymru, was an old but beloved ruler, and he was respected second only to Uther Ambrosius. Her hand would immediately strengthen the new king's position.

_It's not going to happen that way, 'My Lady'_ she snarled, internally.

"Why not?" asked the maiden whose weaving she was half-heartedly inspecting.

Jecka looked at her. _Has this girl seen my very thoughts?_

"Yes. Yes, I have," she replied. "I didn't mean to, but very intense thoughts are hard to block out."

"Does Kiwa know of your gift?" Jecka asked. Even the senior priestesses, who have trained their whole lifetimes, had rarely developed such skill, Jecka knew.

"No. The lady Mysa implored me not to tell. I know not why," the girl responded. "I guess I shouldn't have told you that."

"It's all right. Mysa was a good friend of mine. _Is_ a good friend of mine."

"Mysa said she'd come back for me. I don't really understand why you're upset, though. If Kiwa wanted to marry me off to the new high king, I'd be grateful."

"Really! Well, my dear, I think we can be of help to each other," Jecka replied.

Jecka made it through her day with a much better mind. All she had to do was convince Kiwa to let her take young Imra to Londinium. And as she expected, she was summoned to have her evening meal with Kiwa and Beren. When asked, she apologized convincingly for her foul mood of late. She acted surprised when they told her of their plans to marry her to the young king. She accepted the role with honor, and asked only to bring Imra along as her handmaiden.

"Why not?" scoffed Kiwa. "The girl's proven useless for the priestess life, and is always romancing about court intrigues. Her father sent her to us, I suspect, to also be rid of her. Take her with you, with my blessing."

"You're too kind, my Lady," gushed Jecka, as she exited.

Kiwa and Beren sat in silence, smiling at each other.

"My Lady, you still weave webs inside intricate webs."

"My dear Beren, is there any other kind worth spinning?"

"My liege and dear nephew!"

His greeting was as gregarious as it was insincere. Rokk smiled, trying to hide his wince. "Greetings, Uncle Lot."

"Salutations, King Lot, Son of Auley," offered Sir Brandius. "Is that-?"

"-My wife, Morgause, my kinsmen." Lot interrupted. "Your mother's own sister," he said, emphasizing this to Rokk.

"My lady," Rokk took and kissed her hand, as she kneeled before him.

Standing, she spoke. "I have not seen you since you were a baby, nephew. And to think we all mourned for naught for a peasant boy all those years ago — a complete stranger! My heart is gladdened all the more that you are here, alive, and a fine young man!"

To Rokk's surprise, she took the liberty of hugging him. "Long may you reign!" she said afterward.

_May I be dead before night,_ Rokk translated. Too many had warned him that his kin were likely responsible for his attempted poisoning as an infant — not that he recalled, of course.

"Are my cousins here, too?" Rokk asked. He'd heard much of his heroic kinsman Gawaine, and a measure of good word of his brothers as well.

"The youngest two are back in Lothian, too young for such a long journey. Agravaine you will meet at tonight's feast, while Gawaine is running an errand. He will be back for the coronation," Lot replied.

_And what sort of errand?_ Rokk wanted to say, but thought wiser of it.

"How goes things, lad? Is king-craft all you thought it would be?" Lot said, slapping the youth on the shoulder, following his wife's lead in assuming family privilege with the high king.

"Meetings and politicking and verbal arm-twisting," Rokk answered, fairly candidly. "I will be at war with one half of Britain if I try to please the other half, it seems."

Lot turned coldly serious. "Truer words you've never spoken in your lifetime, I wager, and I never lose my bets. Promise them nothing. Listen to the factions, but avoid choosing between them like your life depends on it. It may."

All four stood silently. Rokk was for the first time impressed that Lot seemed sincere, honest — and helpful?! Brandius, too, appeared to be taken aback, and eyed Lot with uncertainty. Lot continued his gaze, perhaps wondering if he'd said too much, while Morgause looked from one to the other, before finally speaking.

"Perhaps there will be better opportunities to give counsel, husband. Our nephew no doubt has more dignitaries to meet before the feast," she said.

"Bishop Vidar!" Rokk suddenly remembered. "I must beg your leave, my uncle and aunt."

"Beg nothing. You are the king," Lot laughed as Rokk and Brandius departed.

The old Roman garrison that had suddenly been turned into the high king's convening hall was crowded enough that Reep could observe much of this exchange merely by standing still. In the hall candlelight, he looked like just another messenger reviewing his orders. While initially annoyed that he'd lost his opportunity to brief his father and foster-brother, word of Gawaine's "errand" caught his suspicion. This matched what the young Druid had told him, and he liked it not one bit.

Gawaine pulled his reins, ordering his steed to a stop. In a move smoother than his rough-and-tumble appearance would suggest, he dismounted with one simple, fluid motion — even as the horse had not finished its halt.

The robed figure before him was clearly a female. A noblewoman, perhaps, or else a priestess. "Greetings, Sir Gawaine," the lady spoke.

"And to you," he smiled. Looking around, he continued. "I'd imagined there would be a larger contingent to meet me. You are brave, to meet me here alone. I dare say there are some knights who should not be so trusted."

"But not you?"

"It is true that some would include me among such knights, yes. But you have naught to fear from me," he said, stowing his sword on his horse and removing his helm. "I apologize if my disfigurement ills you, my lady."

"You are a warrior. You need not explain," she answered. Through her veil, Gawaine imagined that she smiled.

"I have the blade," she said. She opened a small chest, and from it removed a thick wad of cloth. She slowly unraveled it, and deep inside was a small hand blade, dazzled with gems and decorated with a strange bonelike substance Gawaine was not familiar with. She opened a second package, which contained a small scabbard for the blade. "A Druidic ritual blade recovered from the ruins of Mona. Hundreds of souls still cry for vengeance. Can you hear them?"

Gawaine indicated he could not. _The one voice that haunts me could drown them all out,_ he thought.

She approached, handing blade and scabbard to him. "I trust you know what to do with this?"

"Oh course," he involuntarily smiled.

"Will you require any poisons? I have--"

"-Nothing I need," the knight sneered. "If Beren wants poison, he can procure his own."

Gawaine rode off, not a bit satisfied with himself. He spurred his horse on, racing across the fields and eventually alongside a river. He pushed faster and faster, as if he was seeking to outrun something. He again pulled the reins, coming again to a stop, and he and beast sat at standstill beside the river, staring forward and not moving a muscle.

After a while, he dismounted, pulled of his helmet, and wiped moisture from his eyes. He took the blade and scabbard, and tossed it into the river. "Druids, find your own vengeance. Mother, find your own assassin. The 'Dark Stranger' will use me not! I'll be party to none of it!" he shouted. A swan on the river spied him cautiously.

He collapsed on the bank, and stared at the glistening blade. Poutily, he stood, and waded into the river, kicking his feet, so silt and pebbles would cover it. But as he did so, he had the strange feeling someone was watching.

_You've done right, love,_ a female voice told him.

Reassured as to who — or what — was observing him, he rode on, eventually making camp beneath a large, ancient oak tree. For once, sleep came easily. But several hours behind him, the lad who had actually been watching him had retrieved the blade from the waters, and was making his way back to a secluded camp.

Mysa awoke halfway though the night in a start, half expecting thunder and lightning to besiege the shack.

But all was quiet. Looking around, she saw her escort had returned, and was fast asleep. She smiled at the irony. The third member of her ensemble had not yet returned, it appeared.

Donning her cloak, she went outside. The first hues of blue were hugging the eastern horizon. The woods were oddly silent. No creatures stirred, no insects chirped, nor did any breeze caress the forest canopy.

_Do I yet dream?_ Mysa asked herself.

_You do__,_ a voice told her.

"Imra."

_Yes__._

No one was in sight, though.

"Where are you?"

_Verulamium, en route to Londinium._

"You've left Avalon?" Mysa couldn't believe it.

_I'm escorting Jecka. She's to marry the high king. My time on Avalon may be done, but _**I**_ still perform _**my**_ duties._

Mysa felt a rebuke among her words. The dreamscape was shifting.

"Imra, I'm sorry. But I just couldn't-"

_You and the gods may know your reasons. I truly don't care. You were needed. You failed us. We've adapted without you,_ Imra replied, now standing beside her.

They were on the Tor, overlooking all the hilly isles collectively called Avalon. It was a bright summer day, as it had the last time they met face-to-face.

"What was expected of me, no one should do. It was wrong!" Mysa exclaimed. Imra's reaction was one of pity.

_Poor Mysa. How long must you make yourself the victim? Do you ever hear your own words?_

"Do you!?" Suddenly it was Mordru questioning her, and the Tor erupted with soot and ash. All of Avalon was running and hiding, finding no safety from the wizard, who was suddenly sapping all of Avalon's magicks for himself.

A giant, he was almost as tall as the Tor itself. But someone within the Tor, an old legend reborn, was breaking out. One last hope.

"One last hope," Mysa told herself, waking in a cold sweat.

It was morning, and her escort was awake, roasting a small fish over the campfire.

"Bad dreams?" he asked.

Mysa shuddered. She'd never had her sister or mother's gift of _sight_, yet she knew there was truth to what she'd seen.

"If only they were that simple," she answered, holding herself and rocking forward and back. Sometimes she would yearn for Avalon's insulation, but she never before feared for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**II:**

**Deceiving Appearances**

**Bishop to king three**

"I'm telling you, Bishop Vidar made many strong points." Sir Brandius was on the verge of anger.

Only weeks ago, Rokk would have sought shelter from his foster-father when he carried such a weather about him, but even a new king learns to weigh these ires differently.

Rokk slowly sipped his wine as collected his thoughts. King he was, but that did not mean he was about to treat the only father he'd known like a stable-boy. He returned his goblet to Sir Derek's table, letting the sound echo down the room's length before speaking.

The merchant-knight's dining room had become the de facto conference site for the young king's most sensitive strategy sessions. It was a splendid old steading in the heart of Londinium — one could slip inside from the busy streets mid-day, or through the servant's doors at the back alleys by night.

"Britain is a land of Romans, Celts and even Picts," Rokk countered. "A realm of fisher, farmer, tribesman and city-folk. We have fellow believers in Christ, followers of the old ways, and even Druids and cults of Isis." He paused to make sure Brandius was listening. He saw his elder was still between eruptions, and eyed him squarely.

"I mean to be king of ALL Britain, and to rule all with justice," he concluded with measure and conviction, seeking to be firm but not disrespectful of the man who'd raised him for 12 of his 14 years.

"Then do so, but do so as a _Christian_ king of a _Christian_ land!" an exasperated Brandius demanded.

"I cannot and will not rule a man's conscious," Rokk stood firmly.

"And just who put that nonsense into your head?" bellowed Brandius, now fully red-faced, pounding on the banquet table.

"You did."

Brandius froze in place, perplexed.

"What of Luornu?" asked Reep. He'd cannily let Rokk lead his own defense; he didn't want anyone — even his own father — questioning whether Rokk needed another's wit to stand his ground.

"Hrmp?"

"Luornu's... situation? If you're suddenly so devout to Vidar, what about her?" his son continued, rising from the table. Reep involuntarily winced; his leg injuries were not healing as Beren said they should.

"Well, obviously I can't..." Brandius' focus and conviction faltered. Hadn't he sheltered the girls from Vidar himself? "Lord, what's become of me?"

Rokk's eyes narrowed. "Vidar is very... persuasive, isn't he? Even I had a hard time debating him, while you ate up every word."

"I suppose he's a credit to his faith," Brandius managed.

"The faith you taught me was of a humble carpenter teaching justice and brotherly love. That same carpenter in Vidar's church would be smiting the vendors and wagerers, if you see my analogy."

Brandius looked bitter. "What are you saying, boy?"

"Reep and I have been discussing... unusual gifts, be they from devils or from God. I think Vidar has an unnatural gift of persuasion," the young king said.

"You're accusing the top clergyman in all of Britain of sorcery, then? Strong words for a new king against a trusted and respected man," his foster-father countered.

"You never cared for him before," Reep said.

"Shall we fetch Luornu for him, then? Or Father Marla? If I recall some of your conversations, I'm sure your new friend Vidar would quite be interested in them," Rokk added.

"By damn, what has that fiend done to me!?" Brandius pummeled his head. "He's a menace."

"Indeed. But whilst bedeviled, you did say one truth. We can't just accuse the church's highest holy-man in Britain with hexes and sorcery, especially when the likes of Mordru and Beren are about," Reep offered.

"Aye, for now, this stays with us. Reep, keep an eye on him, if you would. Father, you need to see Beren, and seek a potion or charm against Vidar's spell. Mayhap you can pose as one charmed, and earn his confidence," Rokk concluded. "Tis a wonder I was unafflicted. I shall—"

He stopped himself.

It suddenly occurred to him that Mordru was likely responsible for his immunity. But how did he know that? Was Mordru pitting them against Vidar? Or did it go deeper? "I shall see Mordru."

Reep and Brandius looked skeptical, but deferred to their king's judgment.

The road from Corinium to Londinium was crowded, but not so much that Sir Garth failed to recognize a friend.

"Sir Thomas! It is good to see you again!" he cried, fastening his horse's pace to catch up.

"Good day to you, Sir Garth," Thom managed, with a small amount of attempted good cheer.

Garth saw the red around his eyes and somber look. "What ails you, friend?"

"I have met my heart's desire, and she will be mine never."

"Have hope, friend! Love is truly a wondrous thing! Your love—"

"—Has married my father," Thom shot back, with a snarl. "I had the duty to escort the lady Nura from Eiru. Twas love at first sight for us both.

"Yet duty prevailed, and I took her back. To Cornwall. Where my father now calls her his bride," he continued. "What fool am I."

Garth knew this was not the time to encourage Thom with tales of the maidens awaiting them in Londinium. No, the young man needed something to fight. Or someone.

Garth slapped a glove across Thom's face.

Thom looked dumbfounded.

"I challenge thee, Sir Dour of Illheart, to reclaim thine honour in a duel!"

_What madness is this? _Thom's face read.

"Come on! En garde!"

Thom was about to yank the reins and pull away.

"What? The legendary Sir Thomas of Lyoness fleeing a challenge?" Garth mocked.

Their fellow travelers were all watching with rapt attention.

Thom smiled grimly, and dismounted. Garth followed suit.

Thom began the duel half-heartedly, but Garth gave little quarter, batting him with the flat of his sword.

Murmurs in the growing crowd triggered Thom's innate competitive edge, and he gave back as good as he got.

The duel would last two hours, and end in a draw. Garth's ploy had worked, and Thom's attentions were driven from his miseries, at least for now.

Tales their audience retold would soon portray the isle's two best warriors as pure equals and good friends, who fought from sunrise to sunset just to test each other.

_Who was the 'dark stranger?'_ she wondered.

Her conveyance was dark, and the road was bumpy. The glow of faerie dust gave enough light to examine her treasure, however.

She lay down upon it, half expecting to be scorched. But no, it was cool to the touch, and contained no metal whatsoever. That pleased her. "That's right. I have touched it before. I picked it up, silly!"

The embedded gems were each bigger than her head. She stretched out her arms, and was barely wider than its upper end. She could also balance her feet on its long, slender body.

"They could tie me to this like they say happened to the one-god that the scowlers worship," she laughed. "Tis the right shape."

The bumping came to a stop, and her conveyance was thrust around without warning. She was tossed about, eventually landing on her petite wings.

And then the top opened. She could see Mysa's head looming above her.

"Saihlough? We're about to enter the city. Please keep quiet," she said.

Saihlough giggled. Most folks who beg cooperation from the Fae regret it, but she liked Mysa. She'd try not to me _toooo_ mischievous.

As Mysa was passing the city guard post, the little sprite exclaimed, "Dubhghall!"

The guards looked at Mysa. "Just a sneeze," she told them. Finding a quiet spot, she again opened the bag. "What did you say?"

"Dubhghall!" answered Saihlough. "He's the dark stranger!"

Dyrk was wary.

"But Bishop Vidar is a good man. Why should I?"

"There's something strange going on, son, and I don't want you being ensnared by sorcery. If our new king can only count on one peer to be of keen mind, I want him to be you," Derek countered. "Now drink."

"Why is this potion not sorcery? Surely its maker is demon kind?"

"That is not a _'magical'_ potion. It is an _elixir,_ made from herbs, roots and minerals that each have natural properties," said the Morgnus family's guest. "Combined, their properties help strengthen the mind against—"

"—It still sounds like magicks," countered Dyrk. But drink it he did. "Gah! I think a potion would probably taste better."

"Wash it down with some wine, son," Derek gestured for his servant to bring more wine. "Would you like some, Brainius V?"

"Call me Querl, please. And yes, I would like some wine."

Dyrk had swigged his down and thrust his chalice out for more. "One to get rid of the taste, and another for health," he said. "Tell me, B—, er, Querl, why do you look as you do?"

"A hereditary ailment common in my village. We are a rather isolated outpost, Colu, settled by Athens at its height. Lost and left alone, we have continued the scientific inquiries of our forbearers. The rather unfortunate drawback to out isolation is a rather jaundiced complexion, I'm afraid."

"I must beg pardon for asking," Dyrk said, gauging his father's face.

"Dyrk! Querl is our guest," Derek reprimanded. "And friend," he added, toasting the Greek lad.

Querl accepted the honor, but Derek could see something was bothering the lad.

"What is it, son?"

"Well, you and I have seen the effect of Vidar's influence on the mob this afternoon. While he has obviously long been a charismatic figure, it seems to be a recent development, this mind-magnetism. I'm trying to theorize how it came about."

"Magick," Dyrk answered.

"Well, that explains it all." Querl's sarcasm was not lost on Derek, at least.

Suddenly, something caught the scientist's eye.

"My flask of formula is much emptier now than before I poured Dyrk's serum," he commented, eyeing the wine-servant. "No, not him..."

"A pitcher of water left alone will sometimes lose its volume," Derek offered. "Perhaps the same—?"

"—No," protested Querl. "It's almost as if someone entered unseen, while we conversed, and took—

"Look!" he blurted. "A footprint on the carpet!"

"Ow!" Dyrk uttered, as Querl grabbed at his sandal without warning. Checking his own, Derek's, and the servant's, none had any such mud.

"I told you," Dyrk continued. "Magick."

"Near as I can tell, the fewer people around, the stronger his influence."

"Go on," Rokk urged.

"There are definite similarities between three incidents. Your and father's meeting with him, Wynn and Zendak's meeting this very morn, and an... incident two days ago, when two men attacked some Pictish merchants in the street, calling them 'heathens' and such," said Reep. "Sir Derek and some of his men witnessed this themselves.

"A small riot ensued, and the men later swore to the city guard that they had no idea why they did it – they'd only been riled up after talking to a monk at the marketplace. The monk—"

"—Matches Vidar's description," Rokk guessed.

Reep nodded and continued. "But Derek himself is the only one who can vouch it was Vidar himself.

"And there's more. Sporadic incidents of one or two religious fanatics running amok ever since Ambrosius' death — all churchgoers or other frequenters of the Basilica Forum area of the city."

"And now every nobleman in Britain is gathered here in Londinium. All ripe targets," Rokk grimaced.

"Also of note," Reep continued. "Vidar's sermons are getting more and more rabble-rousing. I think he's _trying_ to use his abilities on larger groups, but not generally succeeding."

"How small a group does he need?"

"I would guess two to five, depending on the wills of those involved. Luckily, nobles are a fairly stubborn lot. I'd say two or three of those." Reep considered his interruption of Vidar's meeting with the two kings confirmation of this theory.

"Mordru guessed as much. He's heard of such influences before, in Vortigern's time," Rokk mused. "Do Wynn and Zendak stand with us, then?"

"As are Sir Derek and his retainers," Reep confirmed. "And Beren and the Druids."

Rokk turned to Brandius. "Spread the word to those you trust, father. No one is to accept a private audience with Vidar. No groups of less than... five, to be safe."

He read his stepfather's concerns on his face. "We can't accuse Vidar, of course, but we can't risk losing allies. Who knows who he's already _talked_ to."

"The local lords and nobles. Those of the trucial Kentish kingdoms, too. And Mekt of Benwick, I'd wager," Reep said. "Many of the other nobles are still gathering from the farther lands."

"Then luck is on our side," Rokk said, silently impressed with how his foster-brother has adapted from his playmate and sometimes-tormentor to spy and strategist. "We have time—"

"—To tell each arriving noble not to trust the man who's going to place a crown on your head?" Brandius posited.

Reep nodded at his father's words.

"Then what do we do?" Rokk demanded.

The three men stood in silence.

"Announce a plague. Quarantine the city?" Reep suggested.

"And when there is no plague?" Rokk countered.

"Have him be 'summoned' to Rome, perhaps?" Brandius offered.

_It can't be that simple_, Rokk thought, but he could not poke a hole in the plan. Especially with time against them.

He looked up and saw Reep's devilish grin.

"Send for Father Marla, father," Rokk said, now grinning as well. "Tis a shame the good bishop shall miss my coronation, but I'd rather be crowned by a cleric I can trust.

"Reep, you may have the face of a priest, but we'll need to garb you as well," he continued. Reep's tutelage under Father Marla would have taught him enough that he could credibly pose as a papal courier, and draft the appropriate scrolls.

_I must send word to my kinswoman, Thay. Her husband, Senator Festus, will see to it Vidar is handled properly,_ Brandius thought.

Rokk was elated to find the solution to the Vidar problem, and it now appeared that his sole headache was juggling nobles long enough to be coronated.

The following day would bring its own headaches, however.

Gawaine had to dismount to chase his foe through the crowd.

"Stand aside!" He shouted at the various merchants, minor dignitaries and sight-seers hoping to catch a glimpse of their young king.

_Gods. Has every country family in all Britain brought their homely daughters to Londinium in hopes of catching the high king's eye?_ he thought, dodging between peasants of wide girth.

His quarry had struck down just such as peasant girl, calling her a "godless heathen peasant harlot." They were in the quickly growing pavilion and tent city growing up outside Londinium's walls for the coming festivities, and thus beyond city guards' eyes.

"Halt!" He called to his quarry, without success.

The varlet cut an entry into a pavilion, and ducked in. Gawaine followed, chasing him out through the proper exit way, with both prey and hunter startling the merchant family dwelling inside.

Out in the makeshift 'streets' between rows of tents, the chase resumed, with bystanders stepping aside with haste.

All but one, that is.

Airborne, Gawaine's chin hit the sandy ground first. He collected himself to face his attacker.

"_You."_

The intervener wore a green helmet and tunic over his armor. He spoke not, only raising his sword.

Gawaine stood and matched his move, bitterly recalling the cost of their last encounter.

After a few moments of sizing each other up, his opponent faked a thrust. Gawaine reacted poorly, and his foe scored first blood, a gash along his arm.

_I am allowing my anger to think for me,_ he realized. _This is no blundering Khund I face._

Rejoining the battle, the two locked swords. Each struggled to find an edge, and while a mighty kick from the northerner dislodged them, his silent foe quickly recovered.

"Why are you here?" he shouted. "To plague me? Or do the Dark Stranger's bidding? Speak, villain!"

The man in green again stood, resuming combat stance.

The two barraged each other with blade-work, neither able to score a decisive blow. The sound of horses led the knight to flee, from one tent and through three more. Gawaine gave chase, only to run into a crowded makeshift market square.

"Gone! Damn him. He'll yet pay," he vowed. "For you, my love. He'll pay."

He followed the sound of the horse to another clearing between pavilions, where Rokk and a red-haired peer had beaten his original quarry.

"Well, thanks for that," he murmured, approaching.

"I say the scoundrel should die!" he heard Rokk's companion say.

"Mayhap. We shall hear his case on the morrow. I suspect twas yet another case of sorcery that made him do it. There's been a veritable plague of people acting as not themselves."

_Sorcery? Aye, I have heard as much about as much from the events of three days agone. My cousin is wise to not rush to judge. I'd have yet killed the man,_ Gawaine thought._ He is a fair man._

Realizing he'd been avoiding meeting his cousin, Gawaine approached, ready to remedy this.

Rokk turned. "Ah, guard captain. Haul this man to the stockade. I shall deal with him after my coronation. Come, Garth." He quickly turned away, arm over his fellow's shoulder, continuing the conversation as they walked away.

He let the city guard follow Rokk's command, dwelling on the meeting.

_Do I regret not trying to befriend my kinsman earlier? Perhaps. Yet I cannot blame him for keeping good company in the legendary Sir Garth, either._

Retracing his route back to his steed, the young knight decided to was too late to regret his jealousies for Rokk or Garth.

He vowed that he must stop the Dark Stranger himself — and prove his worth, to himself and his king.

And let no green knight stand in his way!

**Mysa of the Faeries**

"You know what we need? I've heard of an Ulsterwoman with the strength of twenty, who stands a full head taller than the tallest Northman. They say she fights off Khund and Northman alike — with her bare hands!" Thom joked, taking a swig of his ale.

The three lads laughed.

"With an army of such, I can well afford to worry less about keeping the local kings happy," Rokk grinned. "While my upbringing was Roman, who teach that war-craft is solely for men, I have learned much about the warrior-women of the Celts. Perhaps we can recruit this Ulsterwoman."

"Nay," said Garth, whose face showed which of the trio was trying to be serious. "I have seen the warriors of Iberia fight from horseback. Not the mangy ponies we have here, but beautiful, magical steeds from the warmer lands, bred by people who have made an art of it.

"Give me gold and leave to purchase, say, 40 of these, and I in turn will create a fine fighting force that will prove themselves worth 4,000 foot soldiers," he said.

"Forty Ulsterwomen will be cheaper. I know, I've had a few," Thom jibed, and even Garth had to join his friends in roaring at this.

_But not the one you wanted most,_ Garth responded in his head, but did not wish to renew his friend's melancholy.

"Let us consider, then. What if we put 40 Ulsterwomen on 40 horses?" Rokk posited.

"Mares, I hope. I wouldn't trust an Ulsterwoman around stallions," Garth shot back, outwitting the other two, for once. He relished finally earning his friends' appreciative laughter.

Rokk looked up from his ale, only to see Reep waiting impatiently.

"A moment, my friends. I must speak with my brother," he said, departing the table.

The two walked down the hall, whispering until they exited into the courtyard.

"Well?"

"I have confirmed Vidar's departure. Derek's son Dyrk saw to it himself. Yet we have three new reports of strange behavior. Perhaps I was not wrong in saying a plague was about," Reep reported.

"Perhaps. Derek brags about his new retainer, a _silentist_, I think he said. Supposed to be quite knowledgeable about medicine and nature, yet believes not in magicks. He was the one who supposedly made Dyrk proofed against Vidar's spells. I'd like you to see what he may say," Rokk said.

"Ah, the _scientist._ One of the Druids has mentioned him," Reep said. "I'll go to him at once."

"Good." Rokk sensed something else was on Reep's mind. "What else?"

"Well, the Princess Guinevere of North Cymru has arrived. She's staying at the convent."

Rokk felt his legs quiver under him, and let out a long breath. "I'd sooner face a Khund horde single-handedly than contemplate marriage to a lady I've never seen. I swear, old kings are worse than village crones with their match-making."

"Ah, but a match by village crone can't secure the loyalty of all the western and northern kings," Reep reminded him.

Rokk thought about Luornu. He missed her. "Has—?"

"—She'll be here, too, probably by evening," Reep guessed the question. "She's traveling with Father Marla."

"Good," he said. "I trust that's all?"

"Well, no. There's a woman who claims to be your _sister _here to see you."

"My sister?" Rokk couldn't believe it. "I have no-- She must be a madwoman or a liar!" He was slightly angry at either prospect.

"Beren vouches for her."

"The Druids again! Perhaps I give them too much of my ear. I shall see what Morgause thinks. Even her lies can be more transparent than a Druid's truths!" he exclaimed, storming off.

The door opened slowly.

She sat very still on the chair near the fireplace. She didn't even look at him right away, slowly, almost imperceptibly turning her head, as if imitating his opening of the door.

He tried to smile, but knew he must be looking very sheepishly.

"So. You must be. My-. The Lady Mysa." He winced. That couldn't have sounded any more awkward if he'd tried.

"Gwydion," she whispered, and a face that had struggled not to tremble now warmed into a smile. "It truly _is_ you."

"I am sorry, but I don't remember you."

"No, you would not. I'm not surprised. You were a babe of less than two years."

They both began speaking simultaneously, and each stopped short in reaction, bending over to yield the conversation to the other. Mysa, with more years at personal politics, eventually coaxed him to speak.

"What was our mother like?"

"She was tall. Red-haired, like me, but much more beautiful. Truly a woman two kings would make war over," she said, proudly.

"You must have hated Ambrosius."

Mysa was taken aback. "Why, no. I admit, as a girl, when being punished, I would tell myself that _my_ father would have treated me better, but in truth, both were sons of Rome, who had no use or care for daughters. Uther — your Ambrosius — did try to like me, I recall. To please my mother. Our mother."

"It still rings odd to my ears to hear Ambrosius, last of the Roman commanders, to be called Uther the Pendragon by the Celts." Rokk was warming to her.

"Oh, he was the Pendragon. He stood down his soldiers, and traveled alone to follow the old rituals of Avalon, to truly be high king of all Britain. Willingly. And all the peoples of the Old Ways embraced him. The Celts. The Picts. The Faerie."

"The faerie?" Rokk was genuinely surprised. "There truly are such beings?"

"Oh, yes. Some are closer than you might believe," she smiled.

"So, I, too, must go to Avalon to win over these peoples? Like Amb- uh, Uther did? Is that why you are here?"

"No. I am here to reunite with my brother and congratulate him on his coronation. Uther made the pledges for himself and his line to come. You need only to renew that pledge, if you choose. But that's for you to take up with Beren. I," she paused for emphasis, "Would like nothing more than enjoy the company of my long-lost brother."

While by no means ugly, she was not nearly as appealing as many of the nobles' daughters were. But her charming smile and friendly green eyes did make Rokk, dealing with both adolescence and suddenly having the eye of seemingly all women-kind, to somewhat regret that she was kin.

They talked into the night, mostly with Mysa telling family stories he was too young to remember. With the aid of wine, she recalled and sung his favorite lullaby as an infant, a song about a great knight of olde who loved a Faerie queen.

"I remember!" he said, the last few vestiges of doubt fading. "I remember..."

And he did remember. A young red-haired girl holding him, cradling him, singing that song... a red-haired woman tending him while he was sick and hurting... the same woman rushing out to greet a man on horse.

"Ambrosius," he whispered, recalling the face. _NO! It's got to be a lie_, he thought, imagining that same face with a decade and a half of the stresses of power added to it.

Mysa, who was holding him and singing softly, lost in her own memories, immediately noticed him stiffen up. "Gwydion? What's wrong?"

"It can not be true," blurted the young man, wiping the heavy tears from his face. "Verily, It can't!"

For the second time that eve, he stormed out, with the intent of forcing truth from newfound family.

Mysa gently made her way through the garrison halls. She had not yet been introduced to the staff and guards as the king's brother.

_Would that he still believes that truth,_ she thought, given their conversation's ending. The thought of little Gwydion not only rejecting her — but also thinking her a charlatan — hurt her deeply.

She crossed the palace guards' dining hall, in order to continue her search in the western wing.

"Mysa of the Faeries," casually called out a man sitting alone in the almost-dark hall. The fire was burning low, and he moved so little he almost blended into the support columns.

"Who is there?" she responded, cautiously but demanding. What man in Londinium would taunt her by her childhood nickname?

The man stood, somewhat wobbly. Clearly he was drunk. Mysa considered running, or calling for help, but her recalled her uncertain status inside the king's walls.

He stepped closer, and she got a better look at him. "Lancelot?"

He laughed. "That was Kiwa's name for me. I am Garth. Pleasesed to meet your acquaintance," he mocked, and bowing, almost fell over.

Mysa couldn't help laughing at him. "Lanc— Garth, you are drunk!"

"Yes I am," he said, as she helped him steady himself. "But in the morning I'll be sober, and you'll still be," he looked her in the eyes, "beautiful."

Mysa, flattered by the youth's desires for her, again laughed. "Come, my boy. Let me help you to your bed."

"We can't go to _my_ bed," he slurred his words.

"Why not?"

"Itsa bar'rect. A barrits-- a playsh where men sleep."

"And you are a man, yes?"

"But you're not." As his words were sinking in, he sloppily tried to kiss her. She evaded his mouth, and used his unbalanced state to step away while he grabbed for a column to support him.

"You think I'm going to share my bed with _you_?"

"Mysa. I've adored you since I was a boy." He reached out for her, one arm still holding the column.

"You're _still _a boy." She couldn't help but chuckle at her besotten suitor.

"Yeah, but." He in turn started laughing for reasons that escaped her. "But I'm a _biiig_ boy now."

"Goodnight, Garth." She started to walk away when the sentries could be heard coming down the hall. Were they coming for her?

_I've done worse,_ she thought, realizing there was nowhere to hide. She sat on the bench and pulled Garth close to her.

The sentries passed without pausing, speaking only to comment on Sir Garth's ability to draw ladies from out of thin air.

After they were gone, she considered asking Garth to stop. But it had been too long since a dashing young man had nibbled her there, caressed her theeerre.

_Ohhh._

**Hiding in plain sight**

"Guinevere was my sister, you must understand."

The "was" was not lost on Imra.

"I was the elder, and thus _responsible_ for her.

"It was midwinter, and father was off at Zendak's court. Zendak was then a young man, and had not long been king, and needed father's aid in settling a dispute with the wee folk.

"You see, the Faerie of South Cymru claimed exclusive fishing rights to the Silurian coast, claiming _they_ had defend against sea dragons—"

Jecka realized she was diverting herself. She sighed.

"No matter. As little girls raised by a doting king are wont to do, we evaded our nannies and went out for play.

"It was just an empty snow-covered field with a pond. But to two little princesses, it was a field full of elves, prancing unicorns, handsome knights and merchant fairs full of goods from the far-off Constantinople and the Persias.

"We would play and hold imaginary court until too we became too cold, and we'd sneak back to the castle, satisfied than none knew of our adventures, or our special field.

"Looking back, any fool could have followed our footprints — and did. I knew not enough of the family Art to hide our way. Our nannies were wise enough to pretend to let us escape them, only to keep a watchful eye from the hedge-rows.

"Usually.

"But one d-day..." Her voice quivered, and she took a moment to steady herself before continuing.

"I know not what caused our nannies to be distracted, to not be there. It could have been anything. Directing a messenger, dealing with a castle issue... It does not matter, I suppose. The fact remains is that for once we were as alone as we believed ourselves to be. In our games, I suppose, we lost our sense of the lay of the snow-covered field."

She turned to face Imra, with a pleading look in her watering eyes. "The ice was too thin!" She began weeping. "I didn't know we'd strayed so close to the pond!"

Imra held her close, letter her sob. "Truly, I didn't know," Jecka continued.

"You _didn't _know," Imra reassured her. "You were just a child."

Later (was it ten minutes? an hour?), Jecka found the words to continue.

"Father, as you may imagine, was quite appalled, and I never again held favour in his eyes again. And he was only too happy to have me sent to Avalon. Better than the convent, I suppose.

"A-And to make matters worse, his mind snapped. He couldn't believe she was gone. He'd speak of her, first, as if she were ill and bed-ridden, but would recover.

"While in Avalon, I received word he believed her healthy and well, and would talk into thin air as if she still lived. The castle staff covered for him — he was _and is _much beloved — and my cousin Pharoxx encourages his madness, so he will gain the throne."

"So the other nobles don't know Guinevere is dead?" asked Imra.

"No. My family is adept at preserving their illusions. Probably why I despise lies and deception so much.

"Kiwa knows I can well play the part of Guinevere — to all but father. She expects me to be Avalon's puppet.

"And Pharoxx also counts on me. He knows I can play the part, and he controls me, too. He can blow my deception at any time, which will make me look even more evil to father — evil enough to disinherit, to name Pharoxx as his heir.

"There is only one way out. One way to have a high queen who is neither under Pharoxx' whim nor Kiwa's. A queen who will be an asset to King Rokk, not a liability."

"What do we do?"

"My illusions will make someone else be Guinevere — someone who actually wants to be high queen. All of my father's staff will vouch for her — they are with me on this. They hate Pharoxx even more than I do."

"But how do we fool King Voxv?" Imra truly hadn't gotten it yet.

"Why, we will create a Princess Guinevere who is adapt at the arts of the mind, who can both influence father's perception and be privy to the delusionary conversations and events that _only he _recalls."

Imra's face went white.

"Come on, now. You _did_ say you wanted to be queen."

"You still haven't said it isn't so," Rokk stared at his most disliked benefactor.

Mordru grinned. _So he does have the eye and the wit to be a good king. He may even make a fine wizard, if he applied himself._

"No, I haven't," he said at last. "Very well. I am _not_ Ambrosius."

"But you look like him," Rokk continued his stare.

"Is that such a slight?" Seeing Rokk was not abating, he continued, for the first time returning Rokk's stare with equal intensity. "If he had any... disreputable twin, Ambrosius, as you may imagine, would not favour it being widely known.

"Ambrosius and I took every pain to keep any similarities hidden, be they coincidental or familial. He shaved Roman-style, while I allowed my face to become thicker than Perilous Forest itself. Ambrosius refused to have his broken nose properly healed, that it not be compared to mine other than the standard Roman pronouncement. And I used tricks learned from thespians, jesters and bards to add differences where there were none.

"I can speak naught else, or I would break an oath I swore to Ambrosius."

Rokk soaked up the wizard's words, not quite sure if he believed them.

The man that the woman (his mother?) rushed so eagerly toward had a beard, and no broken nose. _IF a two-year- old's recollection could be trusted,_ he reminded himself.

Leaving out the last doubt, he challenged Mordru with this memory.

"I have never seen Ambrosius as you describe," he said. "If that's the extent of your memory, I fear I've run out of assistance to you."

Rokk paused before exiting.

"One more thing, wizard. The madnesses continue, although Vidar is gone. When last we talked, you seemed sure that he was the cause."

"Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps these are just mad times," the wizard said, dismissively. "I truly know not what contagion is afoot."

Rokk realized that he believed him, and wondered (feared?) if he was actually warming to the sorcerer.

In the hall, it struck him that Mordru, like Reep, at least partly considered the madness a pox, but Rokk couldn't strike the feeling that _someone_ was behind it.

_I should ask Reep what Derek's scholar had to say_. But the hour was late, and he had the halls alone to himself and his thoughts.

Reep joined his hosts in breaking their fasts on the terrace. Sir Derek's country villa was magnificent, a veritable palace atop a hill near Londinium.

A plate of smoked fish, sliced fruits, bread and cheese had been set out by the servants. Reep ate sparingly, else miss a chance to enter the conversation due to a stuffed mouth.

"What you say is impossible," Querl said, slightly irritated.

"Not so. I grant that it may _seem_ improbable, but I assure you. I have walked through a Khundish horde without being seen," replied the target of Querl's ire.

"Surely his visit to this very estate several weeks agone is proof enough," Derek interjected.

"Nay. We must have been distracted, like the charlatan-games the tribes of Little Egypt run on the very streets of Constantinople," Querl replied. "You belie yourself with failure to demonstrate your claims, when asked this very morn. One cannot become invisible!" he concluded, pounding his fist on the table.

"Easy, friend," Dyrk grabbed his arm.

"My apologies." The Greek was slightly embarrassed at his own behaviour.

"I think what our friend is saying is that when he wishes to be unseen no one sees him," Reep said. "Not that he turns invisible."

Querl raised an eyebrow.

"We cannot see, say, Bishop Vidar, but he has not turned invisible. We merely can't see him because he's not here."

"But—"

"Please. Let me continue. And if Bishop Vidar was here, we might still not see him. He could be disguised as a green — er — Greek philosopher, he could be hiding behind yonder tree, we could be so caught up in debate that we overlook him, _or_ we don't want to see him."

"What?"

"Think. No doubt we can all think of a case where people _wanted_ to believe something so much that they genuinely believe it they saw it? Perhaps it's the same. Though a combination of disguise and... _persuasion_, not unlike Bishop Vidar's, I maintain that our friend _can_ remain unseen if he chooses."

Reep quickly realized he was gesturing toward an empty seat.

Querl's eyes bulged. "While we all focused on Reep's words—"

"—He vanished himself! Bravo!" Dyrk interrupted.

"Which he could not do whilst we watched him," Querl concluded. "Reep, you have won your point. I concede!"

"Druid! You can return yourself!" Derek called out, not knowing which way to direct his words.

"Let us all watch that hawk," Reep suggested, "and allow him venue to do so."

"Behind our backs," Dyrk murmured in jest.

"I do feel rude calling him naught but 'Druid.' Have you a name, lad?" inquired Derek, hoping for a verbal sign before he turning to see if the vacant chair was again occupied.

"My name is sworn to secrecy. You may call me by my home, the island of the far north," replied the now-seen fellow.

_L'ile Norge_, thought Derek, as the table returned to facing toward each other. _He looks not like a Northman, though._

"So. Your _persuasion_ argument also supports the madness has its roots in the mind, not a plague," Querl said, resuming the conversation. "I believe our error was assuming that Vidar was the _sole_ person responsible."

"Who else, then?" Reep asked.

Querl continued. "If Druids are capable of—"

"Mind your tongue!" L'ile warned.

Reep intervened. "Methinks he only meant that if one group had mastered it—"

"—That another may. Exactly," Querl said. Looking to L'ile, he asked, "Is there any who might have stolen Druidic secrets?"

"None! The penalty is death, unless..."

"Go on."

"There is a sect of Druids of which I have recently learned. They consider themselves the avengers of a massacre of Druids that took place centuries ago, on the north Cymru island of Mona.

"They were the sole group not to join Uther's alliance, and indeed worked to undermine it. Mayhap this dark circle is now also targeting King Rokk."

_Is this the same north island the lad himself comes from? But if so, why would the conspirator lay forth all his secrets?_ Querl wondered.

The whole debate of persuasion, misdirection and hiding in plain sight still left Querl with the feeling that there was more to L'ile's words than he said...


	3. Chapter 3

**III:**

**From Three, a Legion**

*******

**Kingmakers**

"...would please us greatly to continue the peace," said King Zaryan of Kent. "Not even your esteemed father, the great Ambrosius, unwove Vortigern's treaty."

The ruler of Khundish Britain spoke before King Rokk and a small audience of his advisors: Reep, Brandius and Garth, the latter of which had already acquired the warrior's respect of many Khunds, despite his youth. And unseen, one other observed the talks.

"We fought on the side of the Pendragon time and time again against any invader — even Khundish. Kent will stand with Britain, if Britain will stand with Kent," Zaryan concluded.

"Well spoken, Zaryan. I will gladly say that I have no wish for war between our peoples. Yet many still question why your folk would turn against your own kin? This makes no sense to my Celtic subjects, who place kin above all," Rokk replied.

"My liege, the Khunds of Kent have now been here for three generations. We were born on this isle. We are British, with no more connection to Khundia than..."

She had heard about as much as she could stand.

It was fascinating to eavesdrop on negotiations between kings, but enough was enough. She had warmed to Rokk despite herself, but Zaryan was a Khund first, and thus was less trustworthy than Morgause — or even _her mother_.

Her withdrawal from the king's hall was as undetectable as her entrance had been. While most of Ambrosius' palace in Londinium needed a good summer's worth of sweat and toil to again become a seat of governance, the young high king had seen to it that he at least had a proper chamber to host dignitaries and peers.

Restless, she wandered down the hall, listening into various conversations, noting the faces that were becoming familiar. Yet where had her true love ventured off to? Verily, he was nowhere to be seen.

She eventually drifted out of the palace by way of the old Roman garrison that now housed Rokk's knights. En route, she saw Brandius and Reep escorting Zaryan back to his encampment — safely outside of city walls. She in turn, opted to enter the garrison. The guards paid her no notice on entry.

In the common room, Sirs Thom and Dyrk played six-stones and drank ales, boasting of deeds and conquests. She had little interest in either, and wandered down the corridor. Ahead, the voices of a young man and woman ricocheted down the stony hall.

"How could you say that of me, my love?" Garth sounded hurt.

"I know much of _boyish_ love. It lasts only until the next pretty face," Mysa laughed. "Last eve was a treasure, I'm sure, but I can't have my brother's best knight at my door, else the entire court be scandalized!"

"Then marry me!" Garth pleaded, but Mysa again laughed.

_Best knight?_ Their observer scowled. _They can think that only because Gawaine has yet to earn his king's favour._ Infuriated, she continued on, leaving the couple to their silly games.

Few were out on Londinium's streets, as the city guard had closed them to all but the nobles and military before tomorrow's ceremony. Patrols did not even lift their heads as she passed by.

Circling the citadel, she again wandered past the front Ambrosius' palace, an imposing Roman structure with the pillars to prove itself. Crews had been working day and night to make it ready for the new king, and to host its share of the coronation celebrations on the morrow.

After the palace came a row of nobles' houses, where those who gained Ambrosius' favour built their own tributes to the dwellings of the Eternal City itself.

Continuing on toward the Basilica, she saw the arrival of the priest who is replacing Vidar. He looked not remarkable at all, a countryish man who should seem more at home behind a plow or at a smithy than in robes. And even more strangely, his eyes darted around cautiously, before ushering three cloaked girls into his rectory.

_Well, now. This one has more applaudable secrets than Vidar had,_ the observer concluded.

Reversing direction, she now followed Londinium's artery, Prima Gate, west, where she passed by the Mithraeum, the temple of the Roman warrior-cult. One of the many kings in town for the coronation was exiting.

"Your daughter will make a most excellent high queen, my liege," said a fawning knight at his side. She'd seen this ilk before in Eboracum — all smiles to your face, all knives to your back.

"She shall. You know, she talks of naught else," the old man agreed.

_The father of this Guinevere is a follower of Mithras? Or is this more of the strange Druidic plot?_

She tagged along.

They proceeded along the street until reaching one of the grand mercantile residences, where a row of escorts lining the entry stairs greeted them.

Atop the stairs were two young women, adorned as royalty.

_Truly both are beautiful. Yet which is Guinevere?_

"My daughters!" the king warmly greeted them.

The fawning knight, whom the king had called Pharoxx, looked confused.

"My father and liege," replied the younger of the two. She looked nervous to unseen eyes.

The maidens descended to meet their king and exchange further pleasantries.

In addition to the entourage, the stealthy observer noticed Garth had wandered upon the scene, and his eyes seemed transfixed upon the younger daughter.

_Mysa was right. This 'best knight' has the conviction of a mangy cat. Would that he serves his king better than he does his lady!_ she thought, smug in knowing who was truly a better knight.

Disgusted, she departed this vignette, and turned south, entering the Temple district, where she was surprised to see Rokk and Reep walking toward the Druidic shrine.

"Are you sure about this?" Reep asked.

"No. But if Beren is out to kill me, I'd rather know tonight than in the midst of battle," Rokk replied.

She passed ahead of them, and entered the temple, marveling that Druids would need even a simple building. _Yet this is Londinium — it's hard to have a private grove in a city this size._

But once inside the atrium, there it was — a sizeable courtyard fully gardened into a grove, with an ominous large ceremonial stone in its center.

_If Beren intends harm to the king, I must serve as witness, be it sacrilege or not_.

Finding a quiet corner, she watched as Druid after Druid entered from side chambers, as well as Beren himself. Rokk entered alone, and was ushered away for a ritual bathing. As the moon rose in the sky, the ritual began, officiated by Beren himself.

The ceremonial blade he wielded looked very familiar — the same jeweled dagger Gawaine had thrown into the river!

_They are assassins! I must find Gawaine!_ she thought, fleeing the scene. _Where are you?_

She closer her eyes and let herself be spirited away.

She was out of the city altogether, in a small village a half-day out she recognized from the original trip south.

"My love! Where are thou?"

"Not now!" Gawaine bellowed, trading sword plows with a villain she recognized not, wearing armours of Irish or Cornish style.

_Even if I interrupt, he'll not make it to Londinium in time, even if his chariot has the fastest horses on this isle_.

But then she noticed that Gawaine was not alone. Little Saihlough had gone with him — could this be the Dark Stranger he fought?

Saihlough winked at her. _She sees me!_

"Come, little faerie. We have a king to save!"

***

Garth was quite pleased with himself.

He was pleased with the garb that Sir Brandius' aides had picked out, pleased that he negotiated the maddening streets and made it to the Basilica with an hour to spare — and that he successfully avoided Mysa.

_I must find out who that princess was. Until then, let Mysa keep busy tending to the details of her brother's court._

In a complete contrast from last night, he doubted there was a single square foot of all Londinium not occupied by human eyes this day. _Has even Rome ever seen such a glorious day?_

The priest, a Father Marla, was going over details with Sir Brandius, Sir Derek and others, leaving Garth with little to do but await his liege and best friend.

Few had been allowed inside the vestry, and he found himself with no one to talk to. _Not even Reep,_ he realized. _Where are those brothers?_

"My lord?" A young woman's voice uttered.

He looked up to see his princess from the last evening.

"...," he managed. Never before at a lack of words with maidens, he suddenly felt paralyzed.

"My lord and liege, I swear I shall make you a good wife, and a queen you may be proud of," she said, kneeling before him.

Garth continued to be tongue-tied, just as Rokk walked in.

"Garth! You have found a woman who truly worships you," he laughed.

"Rokk! My king! I-I..." Garth nervously managed.

The maiden looked up. "You're not-?" She looked back and forth between the gaping Garth and the bemused Rokk.

"My liege! Forgive me! I thought..." Imra instead bowed before him.

"Please! None of that!" Rokk exclaimed. "For a lady such as yourself to be let into the vestries, why, you must be—" Rokk's smile froze.

"Princess Guinevere, my lord." Imra's face reddened at knowingly lying to her king and future husband.

_She's Guinevere._ Garth's heart sank.

"My lady! I wish that we had time to talk, but we must talk to Father Marla about the details of the Coronation. You, I gather, shall be at my side."

"Yes, of course," she replied.

Minutes later, they stood on a large dais specially erected in front of the Basilica, with thousands looking on. None of them had ever seen such a crowd, let along been the center of such attention.

Brandius and Father Marla stood across the dais with Reep and Mysa, explaining their roles to them. A handful of city guards and deacons lined the back row against the basilica wall. Slowly, Beren and the various kings came up, forming a line in front of them.

The many lords and knights enjoyed privileged locations immediately to the front of the crowd. Garth-half-noticed Dyrk, Thom, James, Agravaine, and a host of others whose names he had yet to master.

But his mind was elsewhere, on a maiden who looked fidgety and uncomfortable, and not just by the earlier faux pas.

_What could possibly be wrong on a day like this? _Garth wondered. The sun was warm and bright. Brandius and Derek shared greetings with the other older knights of Ambrosius' day. Having finished talking with Father Marla, a smiling Rokk was approaching him. Good cheer emanated from the crowd…

But Guinevere was looking around as if—

"Assassins," she whispered.

Garth was certain he'd misheard her. She must have said—

"Assassins!" She shouted. "They're going to kill Sir Brandius!"

Garth and Rokk shot each other a look, each drawing swords before her words were completely absorbed. They turned to see two city guardsmen holding daggers, approaching quickly and menacingly.

While most nobles and older knights were still trying to ascribe meaning to the young princess' words, Rokk and Garth had already engaged the backstabbers. Although out-powered, sword-to-dagger, the duo used the young warriors' lack of experience against them, and nearly reached their quarry.

But the contest was never in any doubt. Rokk's foe, having parried the king's blade aside, saw an opening to stab Brandius in his gut — but found his blade arm drawn instead back to the young king's sword. His dagger quickly knocked aside, a sharp pain to his side preceded a sense of lightness and the sound of water gushing. Colours danced across his eyes, and he felt an odd, almost sweet nausea as the dais rose to greet him.

Garth's foe fared little better. He turned to face the knight in time to parry one blow, but Garth's sword paradoxically moved far quicker than his otherwise lithe, agile dagger. His arm and thigh screamed in agony after blade strokes he couldn't even see. Falling to his knees, it was almost a relief when he felt a spasm shiver up from his neck, just before he saw the final stroke descend toward his shoulders.

Several noble ladies at the front of the crowd screamed as a head rolled off the dais. Knights and city guardsmen scrambled to catch up, to feign a sense of control after having missed the action.

It took more than an hour to calm the crowd, remove the bodies and be reasonably certain security was restored before the ceremony could begin anew.

And all the while, Garth pondered. _Why Sir Brandius?_ _There's something else going on here._

***

"Simply amazing, by damn."

"Well, that certainly expands our repertoire of extraordinary gifts," Reep said. "Even more, looking at the one Garth wounded."

"How so, son?"

"The wound was... charred. Apparently Garth's lightning-quick swordplay may be a measure more than metaphor."

"Well, he's in good company, then," Rokk smiled, looking down at the hall of feasting guests. He took a quick head-count of the young knights gathered with extraordinary feats attributed to them, and wondered how many more were in the general populace.

"Mayhap we shall have an entire legion of knights with freakish gifts," he said at last.

"You'd play the fool not to," Brandius replied. "I taught you better of Tacitus' writings than to ignore such an advantage. Why, such a legion would be remembered for 3,000 years!"

Hidden in the stonework above them, Saihlough smiled. _This shall be fun!_

She met the young king by intruding in and interrupting Rokk's royal anointment by the Druids the night before, it was true. But once he and the Druids realized she meant no ill, the row was over. He thanked her for her concern, and took a liking her — the first of the Fair Folk he had ever laid eyes upon. And she in turn took a liking to him; _human kings are particularly amusing_, she recalled.

Rokk was also grateful the little faerie had not burst in during the priestess ritual that followed the Druidic one.

Hearing murmurs from the conversations below, Rokk realized that his long absence was being noticed. "I must rejoin the feast. Father, promise me you'll stay safe?"

"Bah! I'll not hide, for assassins can just as easily strike a quiet library as a crowded hall. And I'll not miss this celebration, not even for Rome restored to her former glory!"

As the trio returned to the feast, Reep realized that Gawaine was still missing. _Rokk's most celebrated cousin has made himself scarce, and now snubs even the coronation?_

Reep recalled the 'knife conspiracy' L'ile had set up at his request, when last he suspected Gawaine's loyalties. Had the knight indeed passed the test — or merely seen through it?

"Why did they go after my father?" Reep whispered to himself, disliking an unanswered question.

"Dubhghall," Saihlough answered, although out of Reep's earshot. "One king-maker's vengeance against another."

***

Imra was neither accustomed to all eyes being on her — constantly — nor at having to work at maintaining a lie.

She hated herself for it.

All the men — young and old — wanted her, and all the women — again, young and old — envied her.

"You're doing fine," Jecka whispered, as they moved through the crowd.

"She _needs you not_, to know _that_," Voxv reprimanded. "She's become quite capable in your absence."

Pharoxx glowered, like a wild boar, caged, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness.

"Father, you know I adore you," Imra began.

"Of course, Gwen," he doted.

"If I haven't already taxed your benevolent humour once to often, I might ask of you one additional gift."

"Anything that is mine, or than I can make mine, is yours. You know that," he replied. "So what can I give my precious daughter on the day of her betrothal?"

"I would like very much, if you an see it in your heart, to see you and Jecka reconciled. I love you both, and it hurts me to see you at odds."

"Forgive Jecka? After what she did! No. No, I can't."

"But why? A childhood error, it was. Yet no irreparable ill came of it; here I am. And Jecka is now a grown woman — not that same little girl who—"

"I cannot." Tears were welling up in Voxv's eyes.

Privy to more than his words, Imra realized that part of Voxv saw through his own illusions — and she almost gave it enough strength to blow her cover wide open before him.

And part of her wished for it.

Pharoxx grinned at her, as if he knew just how close she had come.

Jecka had remained entirely quiet, so as not to betray neither her hope nor her despair.

_**I'm sorry, Jecka. I tried.**_

They entered the chambers where Father Marla waited with Rokk and his kin.

She greeted those she knew, and was introduced to his uncle Lot and aunt Morgause as well._ With serpents like these, Rokk will need every good soul he can at his side,_ she thought.

And nervously, she greeted Rokk. _Why, he's just as nervous, yet without secrets like mine. If only we could talk before this ceremony._

_It's just a betrothal ceremony. There's still time to talk before the wedding._

And then she noticed Pharoxx talking chummily with Lot...

***

"I told you, it's Dubhghall!" Saihlough exclaimed.

Sir Thom scrutinized the body with skepticism. "This 'Dark Stranger' some of you were so concerned with was naught but an old man?"

"Do not scoff. I know old men that are deadlier than any of us combined," said L'ile.

Reep tried to tune out his companions. His thoughts were on the conversation between cousins in the room beyond, where Rokk and his heavily scarred kinsman were at last sharing words.

"If you believe me not, or cannot trust me, then I shall go to Lothian, and bother you nevermore," Gawaine told the king.

"It's all a bit much to take in," Rokk said. "Why... Why don't you start again, at the beginning?"

"After the battle with the Khunds, I was approached by two groups, both expressing interest in assassination. I had no interest in killing you, but I felt obligated to find out what they had to say — before a true assassin did. The one group, the Druidic conspiracy, you tell me was but a test. I knew that not, yet hurled their magick dagger into a river of my own accord, rather than see it used against you.

"But before that, I was approached by the Dark Stranger, promising me the throne if I helped him. A-And he promised that my beloved would be returned to me."

"He has a hostage?" Rokk asked.

"No. No, he doesn't. She is — dead, or close to it. But he said he could revive her. I hoped to trick him, save my love without harming you.

"I talked it over with my mother, Queen Morgause, and she agreed I should meet both parties and hear them out."

_I've no doubt she did,_ Rokk thought.

Gawaine continued. "After deciding not to continue, I began hunting these people. Finding one trail cold, I sought the other. With the sidhe's help, I found and fought Dubhghall's men, and Dubhghall himself."

"Why did you not come to me, cousin?"

"I wanted to redeem myself first."

"By bringing me the body of an old man that means nothing to me."

Gawaine turned his heard to the left, paused for a moment, and then sighed.

"What?" Rokk looked at him, wondering what his kinsman was reacting to.

"My love tells me that Saihlough believes Sir Brandius would know the man."

_Two weeks ago, I'd have considered him a madman._ Rokk thought, recalling the female apparition Saihlough said had led her to try to interrupt the Druids.

"Very well." Rokk opened the doors to the outer chamber. "Reep, would you summon our father?"

The collection in the outer room had grown. The Greek scholar, L'ile, Mysa, Dyrk, Gawaine's brother Agravaine and Wynn's son James had all joined Garth and the others since the interrogation began.

"While we wait, pray tell us how you received those scars," Rokk said.

"There is a great glen that crosses northern Caledonia, and within that glen, a dark lake, inhabited by dragons. I fought one such dragon, who swallowed me whole, and chewed on me for an interval before swallowing. I had to slay it from the inside," he said, matter-of-factly.

_This knight makes dragon-slaying sound routine_, Garth thought. _Either he's tougher than I, or as honest as his parents._

"My father could use your help," James said. "Our kingdom, Cumbria, is also plagued by a mighty lake dragon, and father has made it his life's quest to be rid of it. Father has already gone home in response to a new sighting."

"Dragon's blood has made you stronger," Saihlough quietly remarked.

"Yes, yes, it has. I am much stronger, and have been able to do things that make no sense to me," Gawaine said.

_He'll fit right in, then, if we can trust him_, Rokk thought.

"Telling my story to father's court, the Christians among them likened my tale to that of their Jonah. I am no good Christian, but I feel the need to rename myself," Gawaine said, looking at Rokk, "To remake myself as part of Rokk's court, not of Lothian."

"Worry you not that your sire will take it as an insult, tossing aside his name for you?" Rokk asked.

"If he is sincere in his oath of loyalty, he should have no ills. And if he has treachery in his heart, than I fully renounce him, and will say so before any court in his land."

_**He's serious**__,_ Imra told Rokk, measuring the knight unseen from an upstairs parlor. _**He truly regrets being caught up in his parents' deception**__._

Reep returned with Brandius, who exclaimed at the sight of Dubhghall. "Why. It's Doyle!"

"Who's Doyle?"

"One of Vortigern's bastards from Eriu. He sought to rally the Khunds of Kent against Ambrosius, and prevent the alliance that won the peace," Brandius replied.

"So this Doyle was able to ally with L'ile's Dark Circle, and obtain the secrets of _persuasion_, to again rile up Roman against Pict, Celt against Kentish Khund," Querl surmised.

"Not _my_ Dark Circle," L'ile rebutted. "And targeting Brandius gave Doyle revenge for past grievances, while undermining King Rokk's ability to govern."

"Far better to portray a young, weak king than create a martyr that could further unite the peoples of this isle!" Reep agreed.

"Precisely," Querl concurred.

The group talked until the hours of fast-breaking on how to ferret out this Dark Circle, until one by one the warriors drifted away to rest.

"Dubhghall and I certainly had bad blood," Brandius confided in Reep on their way back to their rooms. "In addition to the politicks of state, we were both rivals with your mother."

**Strange Visitor**

Three days of coronation festival had its share of competitions, as young knights from all around Britain and Lesser Britain — and some from beyond — sought to impress the young king.

Garth, Thom and Jonah proved to be the top three, and the only three who could best their liege at swordplay; Garth trumped all in racing steeds and chariots.

With his mounted maneuvers, Garth also succeeded in convincing Rokk that his cavalry concept was sound; all the morseo with Querl's new invention – rider's straps with small protrusions, allowing riders more control and stability whilst riding, and the ability to prod their mounts with small but noticeable shocks; for the first time horse warriors would not need to fight chariot-to-chariot or dismount before combat. Yet despite Garth's impassioned argument, the young king still found himself smiling, thinking of the jests he and Thom shared at his friend's expense.

Rokk humbly excused his own defeats of other knights, saying they held back, "so as not to wound their king," while magnanimously praising the three who beat him, saying, "I'd rather have as trusted allies any who beat me."

But Rokk and several of the knights were perplexed at Sir James' strange, bulky armour and tunics, to which he laughed, saying his attire may be ill-suited to friendly combat, but has served him well in real warfare.

"I hope so," said Thom, noting James failed to defeat all opponents but one — a short, silent lad who refused to remove his helmet.

The lad, dubbed 'Sir Prize' by King Rokk, wished to remain anonymous until he proves himself as a knight, said Father Marla, who vouched for the lad's good character. The king, of course, indulged the lad's wish, noting, "He yet has far to go."

Rokk was much more impressed with the two brothers, Balin and Balan. They proved formidable fighters, each besting all but Rokk and Jonah, but succumbed so easily to their king that he jestingly questioned their efforts.

Like Marla's lad, these two always wore their own iron helmets, saying as Orkneymen, their appearances would be unsettling to gentlefolk.

"I don't like them," whispered Saihlough to Jonah. He resolved to keep eyes upon them._ Perhaps he kept too many eyes on them,_ the faerie later thought, watching Lot's eldest be bested — and even made to look a bit foolish — by Dyrk.

The young Morgnus won most of his battles, but beating the mighty Gawaine took many by surprise. Rather than the rage he once would have shown, Jonah made sport of his embarrassment and commended the fellow's skill and ingenuity.

Lothian's sons would have the last laugh, however, as second-eldest Agravaine avenged Jonah's honour by learning from his brother's loss — and seeing the limits of Dyrk's skills.

_What Dyrk knows, he knows well,_ thought Lot's second son, _But what he doesn't shall be his downfall._

Reep, his injury from the plains of Camulodunum still unhealed, was content to play spectator, see the palace set in order, and aid L'ile in setting up reconnaissance and scouting teams. The summer was barely under way, and it was only a matter of time before the Khunds returned in numbers.

Thus far, only small bands had been seen, and easily fended off by local lords and kings. _They're up to something,_ Reep sensed. _It's only a matter of time._

Rokk's official seneschal, Reep had plenty of duties, everything from strategy to supervising palace staff, making sure all the guests' needs were tended to.

And his staff was being kept busy. Imra, Jecka, the ladies of Voxv's court, Mysa, Morgause, and most any noble woman who could get a word in edgewise plotted and schemed the pending nuptials, all while cheering on (or otherwise paying partial heed to) the menfolk's contests. Garth, of course, was a particular favorite of most of the ladies.

_Would that he were high king,_ Imra caught herself staring at Garth on the field. If Jecka saw, she said nothing.

Mysa, who had surmised why Garth was ignoring her, had initially been amused the young man's fickle heart — but noticing the glances between the knight and her brother's fiancée, now feared the worst.

_They are yet young. May they grow past these fleeting emotions else a kingdom dies stillborn._

Mysa's own relationship with Imra, while initially warm with reunion, was already taking an awkward turn — Imra was no longer the pupil and underling, and perhaps saw her one-time friend and mentor as a threat, or reminder of past subservience she would no longer be a part of.

Concerned with more concrete dangers, Rokk kept an extra eye on Brandius. It was true that no more would-be assassins had struck, and the madness seemed to have run its course among the public, yet the young king was not ready to surrender his foster-father due to neglect.

He was gladdened by Luornu's arrival, yet she also seemed far distant — as if she and he had become strangers in the two short months since they hugged their good-byes.

"You have nothing to fear. Vidar has been sent to Rome," he assured her. But whatever demons plagued her seemed to be growing worse.

Rokk considered asking for Imra's aide, but then thought the wiser of it. _The most invasive of tools must be the last to be taken off the shelf,_ he thought. _Especially amongst those one cares for._

His train of thought was interrupted, however, when L'ile and Reep sought him out.

"It's the Khunds," L'ile blurted out. "Or rather what's left of some. Camulodunum's coastal patrols have found the remains of three raiding boats on the Trinovantes shores."

"Did they run afoul of sea dragons? Or was it a storm?" Rokk asked.

"If what they say is true of a woman scorned, then aye, perhaps it was a storm," replied the young Druid. "It was the Ulsterwoman that Zendak and Beren have told me of."

"I would very much like to meet this woman," Rokk smiled. "Verily, she would be most welcome among my knights and companions."

"If she lives, you may ask her," L'ile replied.

"She was struck down?"

"Nay. At least, it appears not. I have taken the liberty to dispatch our best healers. And Querl."

"Poison, then," Rokk conjectured. "You acted wisely," he told L'ile.

"Reep, my brother, would you have my steed readied? I would ride to Trinovantes myself."

"To escape your wedding day?" his brother chided.

"Nay," Rokk laughed. "If any Khund survived, and knew the Ulsterwoman was ill, I'd hate to see vengeance taken in my kingdom."

"My lord, I beg of thee. Take a company of knights at your side," L'ile implored.

"With the city patrols on hand, I have extra swords if I need them. Nay, Tis a simple matter I can handle myself."

Yet on arrival at the stables, Marla's mysterious silent knight awaited, ready for travel. "Ready for a quest, lad?" Rokk laughed. "Very well, then, Sir Prize, we must away."

***

"And whose scarf did you carry into tournament?"

The question was intended innocently enough, but to Thom, it was another twist of the knife. "None, I'm sorry to say," he told the couple as they strolled through the summer dusk. The streets were quiet; many were feasting, either in the halls of privilege or at the campfires that surrounded Londinium like a sea of fire-flies.

"I'm sorry to have missed your very first tourney here at Rokk's court," Marcus smiled. "But my bride brings tidings of greater import."

En route to Cornwall those half-dozen weeks ago, Thom had heard Nura's sometimes-prophetic mutterings, but still wasn't sure what to make of them. Even so, he trusted her, and gave her words heavy credence.

"So you have said. But what is this urgency?"

"I… have only seen a portion of it. But I know who we must see to glean the full visage," she said, trying not to look him in the eye. "I know only that _you _must aide King Rokk, if he is to see his throne again."

They made their way to the Druidic shrine in Londinium. "Greetings, Duke Marcus, Lady Nura, Sir Thom," said the guard.

"King Marcus," Thom's step-father corrected. "And Queen Nura," he added, almost as an after thought.

Both Thom's and the Druid's eyebrows raised at the last. _Does father now usurp Mysa's claim to Cornwall? He has been but the regent all these years. Has Rokk given him the land, or is he already challenging the high king?_

"Lady Kiwa expects you, and she has a message for you," the guard said at last, letting them pass.

_So Nura was right. The Lady of Avalon does have the other half of the puzzle for us_, Thom thought.

***

"It's a game our friend Querl brought with him. Apparently, it's quite the rage in the East," L'ile said. "You throw two six-sided stones, and based on the outcome, you move all your tiles from one triangle to another around the board," he continued, tying to keep up with Reep's fast pace. "But if one tile lies alone on a triangle, and your opponent lands on it—"

"Sounds like a splendid diversion, should I ever have an afternoon free again." They reached the kitchens on the lower level. "I spend so much time down here, I should change my title to 'Kitchen Staff Supervisor,'" Reep joked.

"But how many kitchen staff supervisors also oversee security forces?" asked L'ile. "I've only ever heard of one, in the legendary land of Palnu."

Reep picked up a piece of cheese. "I've been so busy, I've not eaten since fast-breaking." He was shocked to find L'ile grabbing his arm, preventing him from eating.

"I smell Wyrmweed," L'ile said sternly, forcing his friend to drop the cheese. "A deadly poison from Scythia."

"Yes, it is," replied one of the kitchen staff, chewing and swallowing a morsel himself. "A slab of veal from the north was also poisoned.

"Amateur job, I must say. Smells like poison, and it tastes too salty," he said, helping himself to more veal.

"L'ile, meet Tenzil, our new beefeater."

"A madman, that he knowingly consumes fouled meats!"

"Nay," replied Tenzil. "A man cursed by the Faerie Queen to eat but never be sated, to taste but never enjoy, to consume any poisons but never ail."

"What better poison-tester could one wish for?" Reep beamed.

"Who indeed?" L'ile agreed. "You are knowledgeable about many poisons?"

"I know poison when I taste it, and often upon smell. And I'm fairly good at judging plant from mineral, powder from liquid, and pox from poison, even after the beast has swallowed it."

"We may need your help, then," L'ile told him. "It's been two days. The king must be en route home by now," he said to Reep.

"Then you, too, think the Ulsterwoman was poisoned?" Reep asked.

"Aye, It does seem likely," L'ile answered, before shifting his attention to the beefeater. "Good sir, once the guests' evening meal is ready, would you join me on an errand?"

**The Elf Queen**

The rain was getting harder.

Querl had accepted that Britain would be a far rainier place than any Mediterranean city he ever called home, but never imagined how rainy, damp and chilly a place it could be - even approaching midsummer.

Yet he dared not light a fire.

His cloak, along with three of the four others gathered from his late Druid escorts, made a fine enough tent, easily enough camouflaged with branches and weeds. Every so often, he'd hear the shouts of his pursuers, yet none have ventured even remotely close to his encampment.

_Luckily you are far to ill too give voice to your pain,_ he thought, as if speaking to his guest.

She was tall, even by the standards of these northerners. During her better times, she muttered words in Gaelic, which her Greek caretaker knew far too little of to understand — even if she'd ever spoken coherently.

_At least the Druids' herbcraft took measures to better your condition,_ he observed, feeling her forehead. _You may not die this eve after all._

Lightning flashed, followed closely behind by a fearsome thunderclap. The voices outside became more distant, as the hunters, too, no doubt sought shelter.

The makeshift tent, now soaked and never seamlessly watertight, was beginning to let a noticeable amount of moisture though.

_Our one chance to outrun these fiends. But only a madman would try to travel through this._ A lightning flash again illuminated the young woman. He stroked her cheek. _Aye, only a madman._

He rolled his charge over on her back, before unrolling a fifth Druidic cloak, one that was more bloodstained than the others, and set it over her, clipping it in place to her belt using an extra cloak clasp.

Sitting beside her, he then lifted her over his shoulder, gradually rising to his feet with her balanced in place. Despite a few stumbles, he managed to pull it off.

_My thanks to the lady that she wears no armour._

He had previously carried her several hundred feet, with great strain, yet she now seemed lighter. _What madness is this? But I should reserve my complaint for another hour._

Stepping out into the driving rain, he made little headway, and after a minute's effort realized he wasn't certain which way to even go.

_I should follow the stream away from the sea. From there, I go straight until I hit a road_.

He could make out the stream's edge, now bloating outward into the lower woodlands. If the storm worsened, his own tent would be engulfed before long, he noted, bolstering his decision to move on.

About 30 feet en route, he had to rest, and leaned against a tree, his female cargo still providing his sole rain-block. She did not a good job; he was drenched, and it was getting harder to see.

As rested as he could get, he repeated his efforts, knowing only that he was moving against the stream's current _...which must be uphill..._ taking breathers every 20 to 30 feet.

He'd lost track of his progress, or even how many breaks he'd taken, and the experience was beginning to blur into a swath of wetness, nasal congestion, light-headedness and the rhythm of the merciless rain. And then he lost consciousness...

…Querl awoke hearing horses, and immediately assumed the worst. He reached for a stick, a stone — anything, to defend himself, and sat up, amazed to find himself holding a sword in his hand.

The two riders looked nothing like the barbarians he'd faced and evaded (yesterday?). They were fair of complexion and hair, with young, hairless faces, and fine, glistening armour. And they rode silvery horses.

"Who art thou, and how did you come upon the Claidhim Lugh?" one demanded.

"Clay-um Lou?" Querl was perplexed, but relatively certain he was awake. "You mean her?" From their reactions, he guessed they didn't mean her.

The speaker dismounted. "In the name of my lady, I ask you again! Who are you?"

"I am Querl of Colu, sometimes called Brainius V." He was growing to hate the name, but if they'd heard of him and were to be impressed, it would be with that name.

"And how did you gain the Claidhim Lugh?" he continued.

_He'll not believe that I know not._ "My lady entrusted it to me for safekeeping." He gestured to his Amazonian companion, still asleep.

"Wake her, that she may vouch for you."

"I cannot. I believe she's been poisoned. Now I believe it's your turn. Who are you, and where are we?"

"You are in Annwyn Annowre. We are the gatekeepers, Maigh and Dewphe, and we will now escort you to meet our mistress."

"Then make yourselves useful and see that _my_ lady is transported." He knew he'd carried her, but strangely felt not weary at all. Still, no sense in repeating the effort, when two fine horses were here.

He also noticed he and the lady were both bone dry, and although the day was bright, there was no sun to be seen.

Realizing they waited for him, he said, "Lead on, Maigh, Dewphe."

***

"Yes, so they were Khunds. What of it?" Marcus wiped his blade clean, pleased that he was still fit enough to face a worthy foe one-on-one.

"Look at their weapons, their tunics, father. See how different they are from the already dead bodies of the Khundish raiders we found along the shore? How much better their armour is? All British items."

"What's your point, lad? Khunds have long raided Britain and taken such goods." Marcus was losing patience.

"Aye. Those raiders mix and match, it's true. A Frankish sword, a Gallic helm, a British shield. But _these_ are entire outfitted in British equipment — and unlike raider's mismatched booty, each's wares seemed fairly well tailored to the wearer," Thom concluded.

"If you accuse the Kentish treaty lands of treachery, you'd better have stronger arguments to make," warned his father.

Thom nodded.

Marcus turned his attention to his wife. "What of this _Irish_ hussy you saw?"

"She was taken by the green man into Sidhe," Nura replied. She bristled at the implied insult. Although Cornish in origins, she grew up in Eiru.

Marcus rolled his eyes. "The Romans were right in dealing with those little—"

"Father!"

Marcus was surprised. Thom was not one to reproach his lord and father, but the young man was gesturing for him to silence himself.

"If we are near a sidhe dwelling, tis best not to be insulting." Thom turned to his new step-mother, trying not to look into her eyes. "Is she in the same realm Lady Kiwa said King Rokk was in? How do we get there?"

"'_We'_ do not. _You_ follow the path of flat stones in yonder stream," she pointed toward a small ridge, deeper in the forest. "That is the route the others went."

Marcus nodded. He had no intentions of entering _their_ realm again. He smiled, that his bride's _Sight_ could be crisp enough to anticipate that his son would take this trip alone.

"We'll guard the entrance," he announced, coming across less reassuring to his son than he intended.

The three crossed the ridge, stopping only to examine some pieces of cloth that lay beneath a pile of twigs, branches and weeds. There was also a smooth stone, with an Irish Druidic rune on it. Marcus kept that for himself — and for Nura, of course. Finding no bodies, they proceeded to the stream.

"Lad!" called Marcus. His son turned quizzically. "You'd better hand us any iron you may have on you?"

"It would make a bad impression, wouldn't it?" Thom smiled.

Once the task was complete, he stepped to the first flat stone, and turned to ask Nura, "How will I know when I'm there?"

"You'll know," she told him, smiling.

Without thinking, he let himself make eye contact with her, and they found themselves staring soul-to-soul — again. Her polite distance and his avoidance of her were cast off like masques hurled aside at the end of a carnival, and nothing else in the world mattered but—

"Get on with it, boy!" barked Marcus.

"Y-Yes, of course. Farewell," he smiled politely, as did Nura. The carnival masques returned, it seemed, albeit without the freedom from inhibitions that such fests allow.

Thom stepped from stone to stone, counting first a dozen, then two dozen, amazed that there would be so many stepable flat stones in a row. "How many do you think there are?" he called back.

Receiving no answer, he turned around, only to see a huge glistening sea behind him, deep blue waters with ripples that glittered like gems. The waves, smelling more like rose pedals than salt, lapped gently aw the stones beneath his feet.

Looking forward again, he had three steps to go before a pure platinum-sand beach awaited him. A variety of winged creatures, mostly small, drifted between the thick, mighty trees beyond the beach.

Once on the shore, he saw a path lead into the woods. Although the beach was pristine, the path beyond had plenty of recent footprints — human, equestrian and other.

"This must be the way, even if the way is an ambush," he concluded, entering the woods.

Back at his starting point, Marcus was still amused by his boy. "I think he's taken a liking to you," he jibed.

"Yes, he has."

"A pity. A young man's heart can create so much sadness, so needlessly."

"Yes. It can only end badly," Nura agreed, turning her head to hide a tear.

***

Querl awoke starving.

He looked at the tray of food before him, but then looked away. He knew enough legend not to eat food in the Faerie realms, else be bound there for years. He didn't necessarily fully believe the tales, but this isle of Britain seemed out to prove him wrong about everything.

Querl again tested the door to his room. Still locked. _Curses._ He paced around, feeling antsy, as if he was missing something important.

_Better find some action else I lose my wits to my hunger,_ he thought, annoyed at his helplessness.

He was in a tower; of that much he was certain. What little he could hear of the outside world did not amount to much…

Until now — the definite sounds of swordplay and angry voices!

Querl nearly injured himself yesterday trying to squeeze through the widow bars far enough to see the courtyard below, but now the sound of combat inspired him to try again.

He lifted himself up to the lone, high window, delicately balancing in the thin ledge between bars and gravity. There was but one tempting gap between bars wide enough to get his head through, although there were still sharp spikes to avoid, designed to discourage the effort.

Querl rubbed his scar along his cheek and neck from yesterday in recognition of this before slowly, carefully attempting it again.

It worked! Comfortable it was not, but he could clearly see King Rokk below, fighting Maigh and Dewphe, and not fairing too well. He felt better about his own defeat, even wielding a "magic" sword.

Just as he saw another figure charging out of the woods at the king, he slipped, slicing his upper right ear and part of his head on a spike as he bumped on bars, ledge and soon after, the floor of his cell.

"Noooooo!" he called on the way down, both at his own fall, and an attempt to warn the king of the interloper.

_And I am useless to him up here,_ he thought, checking how deep the gash was _this_ time.

He ripped yet another length of his outer tunic and held it against his head. _For better or worse, King Rokk fights alone._

Alone.

He wondered what had become of the Irish woman. Had their "hostess" harmed her? With uncharacteristic anger, he hurled himself again at the door, again straining his lithe frame.

Lying on the floor panting, he flailed around to regain his bandage, disturbed the amount of blood now pooling.

"If I die, it shall not be on this floor!" he shouted at the evil door, knowing full well he was irrationally ranting — a trait he despised. What was wrong with him?

The door suddenly exploded backward, adding another to Querl's collection of bruises, winging him as it hurled toward the far wall.

Several splinters of wood rained down as well, remnants of the barricade that had held the door fast.

He looked up, to see the Ulsterwoman standing tall, who in turn looked surprised to see him on the floor.

She said something incomprehensible in Gaelic before lifting him. Despite his cry of pain, she carried him off toward the stairwell, stroking his cheek as he had done to her back at the tent.

"Rokk... The king needs you help," he told her. She smiled at him, uncomprehending, continuing down the stairs as he passed out.

***

"Have you anything to say, lady?"

Thom had never seen Rokk so angry; the high king was quivering with anger as he said the words.

The woman looked up at him. "I love you," she said, and recognizing something in the way she looked at Rokk, Thom believed her.

Rokk slapped her face. "You... DARE... say that to ME?"

"My liege..." Thom began.

"DON'T—" Rokk snapped, redder than an August sunset. "You know not what she has done, Thom. She must die. She will die."

"Let us be done with this," she continued, "My love."

"If my knight were willing to execute you, I would deny you the privilege of execution by _my_ hand," Rokk said. Hearing nothing from Thom, he continued. "Lie still, and this may hurt you less."

Ambrosius' heir drew Excalibur. It looked battered and ragged, as if it had been used to fend off every Khund that ever lived. _How has my king's sword become thus in only a week?_ Thom gaped.

Rokk swung steadily, and Annowre's head bounced thrice before rolling to a stop. The sap-like bright red fluid that the Fae have for blood flowed like a syrup, rather than the splattering that similar human wounds create.

Rokk took several deep breaths, whispering, "It's over. Thank Iesous. It's finally over." He walked to the parlour's doorway, and out onto a balcony. He stood there and stared.

Thom joined him.

"There." Rokk pointed. "You go 70 paces into the woods, and there's a rocky outcropping. A burrow of rabbits dwells just beyond, and there is other fine hunting.

"There." He pointed in another direction. "Beyond yonder berry bush, a trail can lead you either to a river of wine, the ruins of an old hill-fort, or the Shimmering Village. You can take the same path every day, and reach dozens, maybe hundreds of places. It is different each time."

"How do you know this?" Thom was having trouble believing Rokk could have seen so much of this realm in so few days.

"There." Rokk pointed to a hill rising over the forest canopy. "The hill is not always there. Sometimes it is plush with game, while others it is blighted. I once found a band of little faerie musicians there — akin to dear Saihlough's people. They sang a song of hope and love. That was so long ago..." He was almost in tears.

Thom counted the days since the king's departure from Londinium, and began worrying for his king's mind. Then he recalled where they were.

"H-How long? Have you been here?"

"I lost count of the months." He turned to Thom, looking the knight squarely in the eyes. "Tell me, how fares Britain? Who rules in my stead? Gawaine?"

"You... You haven't been gone long enough for the question to be posed. I saw you last one week ago, the day after your coronation."

"The day after... last week." The information soaked into Rokk.

"Every day. Every day I would wake, having forgotten I was not in my own castle. I would go into the woods and hunt. I would meet two of my knights — sometimes you, many times Garth, Ga— Jonah, any of them. All of them. They would betray me, Thom. They would turn on me when they'd gain my back, and beat me senseless. They'd bring me before Annowre, who would again ask me to lie with her.

"And only then I'd remember all the times it happened before, and I'd spit at her. And over it would begin the next day. But yesterday, Thom. Yesterday, I cursed her. I cursed her, and all of Faeriekind. What have I done?

"S-She in turn ordered my death. Her two manservants were to kill me, when you stopped them. In truth, I thought you another traitor when I saw you charge."

Rokk wept openly now, and Thom held him. "Saihlough," Rokk blubbered. "What have I done, Thom? Have I betrayed Britain's oldest peoples?"

_Even now, he concerns himself with Britain, not his own torments,_ Thom marveled. "Then we shall endeavour to have this curse lifted," he assured this king.

_Nura foresaw no curse,_ he reminded himself. _Yet._

***

_I failed him._

That's all the knight could think, standing on the ridge, watching the reunion of the various figures.

King Rokk greeted Marcus, while his beautiful young queen talked with the tallest woman the knight had ever seen, both speaking in what sounded like Gaelic.

L'ile and Tenzil tended to Querl, while Sir Thom looked on, ready to offer his aid.

Only Thom had approached the knight Rokk had dubbed Sir Prize, reassuring that following Rokk's last orders to keep watch was the right thing to do. Thom even joked that he would rather be Sir Prize himself — to be less recognized at court! The knight's vow of silence limited the conversation, of course, and Thom drifted back to Querl's group, occasionally stealing glances at Marcus' bride.

_Even as a guard, I missed the arrival of Thom's group while I hunted for food. They must think me a complete coward._

Rokk was making much of the three gifts the tall Ulsterwoman, Laoraighll, had brought: Three artifacts said to have been brought to Eiru by the legendary Tuatha de Danaan: Claidhim Lugh (the sword of the craftsman god Lugh), the Spear of Victory, and the Cauldron of the Gods. A fourth item, a "Stone of Virtue" was apparently lost during her illness.

_She, already a renowned warrior, did this to prove her worth,_ the knight pondered.

_Prove her worth._

Rokk had tied up with one conversation after another, but finally found a moment to approach the quiet knight, to make assurances that more valourous duties would come about.

But when he turned, the knight was gone.

**Lightning and Magicks**

Beren accepted the wrapped package with a bow. "It shall be done, my liege," he said.

"With discretion," Rokk added.

Beren smiled. "Of course."

The king and his companions made their way back to Londinium, navigating the woodland path by torchlight.

"I don't like it," said Balan. "Why, there are plenty of _Christians _who would—"

"—do a fine job," Rokk agreed. "Yet it is a magickal sword. I know not that an ordinary craftsman — no matter what his faith — is up to the task."

Mordru nodded. "Only Avalon has the skills and the spells to repair Excalibur."

"A _Christian_ king should not need sorcery!" Balan declared.

"Ambrosius' own priests gave their blessings onto the Pendragon's sword, as has Father Marla," Thom noted. "Surely you believe their blessings carry more might than a few spells?"

"The sword, I worry not of. I worry that my king is BEING ENSNARED BY HEATHEN SORCERERS!" the Orkneyman boomed.

"Hold your tongue!" Rokk snarled. "Balan, you would do well to remember that the only evil sorceries we have seen so far were those of your Bishop Vidar!"

"But—"

"I said, HOLD YOUR TONGUE!"

Pausing to make the point, Rokk continued. "It is not by _my_ choice that sorcery is afoot — by pagan or Christian. Vidar is proof, my friend, that who is good and who is evil is NOT determined by one's faith. Is it?"

He stared at Balan, but the knight refused to concede.

_Your soul must be saved, my king. One way or another._

***

The rider charged straight at her, and leveled his lance, ready to run her though.

Although still unused to this new style of combat, he urged his horse onward, building yet more speed, massing more force with which to assail his target.

The Ulsterwoman smiled.

Her arms were poised, ready and waiting...

…The lance was within seconds of impact...

…She was ready...

…But the rider suddenly shifted the lance, aiming not at her heart, but her thigh.

She was quick, it was true, and tried to change her intercept, but all she could do was deflect the weapon, not snare it.

The rider passed, still holding his weapon, he slowed, and came to a stop at the end of the field.

"Chugainn!" she called, challenging him to try again. "Féadann tú é a dhéanamh má thugann tú faoi."

The rider again leveled his lance, and prodded his mount in her direction again.

_She expects trickery this time,_ he thought. _Why then, she must have it._

The lance again was aimed at her heart...

…She rubbed her palms with her fingers in anticipation...

…Watching for any signs of what trick he would try this time...

The lance remained straight on.

She grabbed it, thrusting its point into the ground, expecting the rider to be dislodged from his mount, just as the others were ---

-- but there was no extra weight or resistance!

Slightly imbalanced, she regathered her wits to see the rider that let go of the lance, and had drawn his sword!

With no time to move, the flat of the blade cracked upon her arm, knocking her to the ground.

"Bithiúnach!"

From the pavilion, a battered and bruised assortment of warriors cheered. Each of their humiliating losses were being avenged at last, it seemed.

The rider dismounted, approaching on foot.

"Amadán," she sneered. "Tabhairt faoi!"

Her opponent's sword kept at her like an unrelenting swarm of wasps, yet she evaded his thrusts, ducking, leaping and virtually dancing around him.

She gave as good as he did — her foot or fists coming as close to connecting as his swordplay did to her.

Until a glancing blow knocked the fellow over. _If that's a veritable miss, I'd rather not feel her full strength,_ he marveled.

She could have easily finished him off, but waited for him stand. He could see she was enjoying this.

"Arís eile!" She gestured for him to stand and resume.

He picked up his sword, and they resumed the dance — albeit slower — each now accepting the other as an equal, and eyeing each other for weaknesses or openings.

"Firinscneach?" she taunted.

_Just as well I don't understand,_ he thought.

Hoping she had adjusted to a slower rhythm, he began a new assault, trying a pattern he'd practiced but never had opportunity to try on an opponent.

With his blood pumping so loud he could hear his heart, he took satisfaction at his opponent's surprise, as she began backing away from him.

Finding himself in a state of keen euphoria, he realized he was swinging the sword faster than he could see ---

--And there was a blinding flash.

"Splanc thintrí!" She was as surprised as he.

She was knocked backwards by the blast. The other knights ran out from the pavilion, and all gaped at the smoking hole under where Garth's sword had been. A snake-like pool of molten metal drained into the hole.

Garth stared at his hands — now exposed. Most of his gloves had burned away, and what was left was charred.

But his hands were largely unscathed.

"_Taranaut!"_ he whispered to himself. "So it wasn't just a dream."

"Garth! What happened?!" called Rokk.

"Taranaut." His sole word hung in the air, awaiting explanation, but Garth just walked away, leaving a legion of gaping mouths in his wake.

***

"So it's not lightning?"

"Not exactly," Querl answered. "Lightning, my people believe, is a result of too much energy—" seeing the lack of comprehension, he sighed, and revised his approach. "Too much... fire, accumulating in the clouds above. Just as the clouds grow big and dark from holding too much water, and let loose as rain, many times they also weight too heavily with... this type of fire, and let this loose, too, as lightning.

"Thus, lightning by definition is, well, a transfer of fire from clouds back to the earth. Sir Garth is not a cloud, therefore he produces no lightning."

L'ile and Reep nodded, absorbing the theory.

The scientist turned to King Rokk.

"You've said before that Sir Garth 'moves as quick as lightning?'"

"Yes. He's even earned nick-names for it: Taranau, here in Britain; Taranaut in Lesser Britain; and Laounschliet among the Kentish Khunds.

"His swordwork indeed has created what appear to be small flashes of lightning."

"Bet never before an actual discharge of en-- fire."

"No."

Garth, still silent, nodded in agreement, but looked away sharply.

Querl returned to facing them all again.

"I believe this lightning-like effect, then, results from the speed of his sword, based on the information at hand." Eyeing Garth, he continued. "You yourself said you'd never swung your sword so fast."

Garth nodded.

"Then I'd advise against it, unless you wish to melt another sword."

Seeing his audience was still perplexed, he continued. "When you were children, did any of you take a running fall on a floor-rug?" He saw enough nods to continue. "The rug was neither sharp nor on fire, yet you received a wound not unlike a burn, yes?"

More nods. "A similar concept here. Speed contributing to a burn without fire, but a greater speed and a greater burn."

"If Garth were to wield Claidhim Lugh, the sword of the craftsman god, would it not be impervious to Garth's lig--eh, fire?" Thom asked.

"Rokk awarded it to you for your service," Garth returned. "I could not accept the sword that you so clearly deserve."

"Moreover, would you really want to risk such an important gift by so testing it?" Querl asked.

"So as long as Garth doesn't reach that speed again, all is well?" Rokk asked.

"So it appears," Querl nodded.

"Then I may go to Iberia after all!" Garth exclaimed, smiling for the first time since the incident.

"Bring back 40 fine steeds, my friend. And such tutelage as we shall need."

"My liege, it shall be my pleasure!"

Garth almost ran from the room, full of enthusiasm.

Seeing Querl's raised eyebrow, Rokk added, "Sir Brandius shall accompany him, should any Iberians be dismissive of a young knight."

"I also seek a boon," Querl asked. "You have asked me to devise and improve your weaponry. I have some ideas to try, but I need some of your bowyers and fletchers."

"Then you shall have them. If you will pardon us, I have a meeting with our Irish women."

Rokk and Thom departed.

"Are you really certain it's not lightning? I say if you'd seen it you may think differently," Reep said.

"As certain as I can without having seen it up close."

"But what caused it?" L'ile asked.

"While it's certainly not your power of _persuasion,_ a secret you Druids still cling to, I am theorizing that this very island is now the epicentre of... for lack of a better word, a 'magical storm.'"

"Go on." L'ile was clearly intrigued.

"Eras in which... impossible tales attributed to gods, wizards or magical creatures often seem unbelievable centuries later. My own Greece, for instance, had its era, just as the tales the Christians tell of miracles and winged beings with swords I'd previously dismissed as nonsense.

"But now that I'm observing such events here in Britain — occurrences that I would have deemed impossible last month, I now theorize that magic may indeed be like the clouds — but clouds we do not always see, and thus cannot differentiate the dry, cloudless droughts from days of light cloud cover — the two types I believe most of the world usually sees.

"And like a seacoast, certain areas are rainier than others, usually as drizzle, while certain areas may be more prone to light magic, if I may continue my comparison."

"So you see Britain as being in the centre of a storm," L'ile concluded.

"Exactly."

"There's one thing I don't get," the young Druid said. "You say until now, you believed not in magic or gods or faeries, but yet you belong to the Cult of Isis?"

"We do not... worship gods the way, say, Mithras' flock, or the Christians do. Isis... is a way to place the spirit of reason and intellect into a human form. She's a conceptual muse for inspiration, a desire to put a face on something otherwise faceless, if that makes sense. Like a ship crew calling their boat 'she,' while knowing it is not female in the animal sense. Reason is the substance, the name and face is just a way to personalize her."

L'ile nodded. _You're not so far from Druidism as you say._

Reep saw it was time to lighten the conversation. "So show us this back-gamming of which you have spoken."

"Back-gammon. Yes, of course. It's quite the rage in Persia and Araby..."

***

Morgause despaired.

_All my plans are for naught. Gawaine hates me, and Agravaine will follow his lead. Gaheris and Gareth are yet too young. While young Rokk plays out his fantasies, Britain is truly doomed. Even now, the Khund is at the door._

She lit the candles, lit the incense, and locked the door. Her maidwoman had already given her the ritual bath. The moon was full, and the mushrooms were harvested and blessed properly.

She was ready in all ways but one.

_Do I do right? I can end the sham marriage with but a word, but is that the right way to proceed?_ Her growing contempt for her nephew was building. Little things out of place convinced her that his spies had been in her quarters.

_Lady of Twilight, I cannot make the decision, I leave it with you. I shall be your vessel, your hand. So it shall be._

She began the ritual, reconstructing from memory her lessons as a youth in Avalon.

Outside, the ravens gathered...

... The Goddess walked down the hall.

All she saw were little boys, barely tested in battle. _They will learn, and soon. Won't you, my children?_

"Rokk tells me Laoraighll has done extensive scouting — on Khundish soil—" The young Druid stopped. "My lady," he greeted, seeing only the queen whose guise she wore.

The green man beside him followed suit, and she returned the proper greeting. _These city folk may know the Greek's complexion is explicable, but how would the country-folk react to seeing their Green Man? Oh, such sport could be had..._

She continued down the hall.

"Hello, mother." An emerald dragon disguised as the queen's eldest stood before her.

"You scorn me, but you will yet be the undoing of that which you most cherish." She turned to the apparition shimmering at his side, the remnant of the tart from Eboracum her son so fondly mourns.

"And you shall be his undoing, lingering here, not going on to the Summer Lands."

The two stood speechless as she went on her way.

Looking out at the courtyard, the guard and knights were shouting and suddenly fleeing indoors at the sudden swarming of ravens.

"Tis a poor omen," exclaimed a larger of the louts. Even pretty young James was ensnared by fear. _What little it takes to get children to hide in the cellars._

"Morrigan!"

She turned to face her caller. It was the Cornish woman strong with the Sight.

"You may call me that, if you wish. But neither of us are today in Eiru. Call me Cailleach, as we are in Britain. Or Hecate. I always liked the rhythm of that name. But whatever you call me, be prepared to face the consequences."

"I beg of you to leave that woman. She is not yours to take!"

"Oh, but she gave herself freely, and asked a boon of me. Would you stand between a Goddess and her task? But I pledge thee that neither your husband, sister nor pretty boy shall be harmed by _my_ hand. But you knew that already, _Elaine._"

Nura retreated, her strength to challenge the Lady shattered.

The Goddess was having fun. There was potential here, to make sport with warriors as she hadn't done in some six centuries. _Not since Craebh Ruadh and the Hound..._

_But I've given the lad time enough. We shall snare your Rokk with his own right arm, my Morgause._

She retraced the route back to Morgause's apartments.

Thrusting open the door, the changeling was there. In a panic, he'd thrown on the face of one who carried the authority to be here, his foster-brother. The goddess could see through him. _But I pick and choose what I shall let Morgause recollect._

"So, my good and noble _nephew_. What brings you to visit me?" She seductively put her arm on his shoulder, and started playing with his illusionary hair.

"M-My aunt!"

"Oh, hush now. We're royalty. There are some... wonderful traditions to observe. Did you not know? There are things a young king must... _know _before his wedding day." Her other hand played with his chest, finding the way past his tunic.

"I-I have already—"

"Enjoyed the wenches? Perhaps. But it takes a _real_ noblewoman to properly instruct her king." She playfully kissed his cheek, but let her mouth linger near his.

"You are a _real_ king, aren't you? Not some _changeling_ Mordru conjured up?"

_I've got him now. His loyalty to protecting Rokk ends his protests,_ thought the Goddess. _And mayhap Morgause can think... more fondly of her king._

**Keeping Secrets**

"_Tale non audivimus nec fuisse credimus_

_5 in terrarum spatio a mundi principio._

_Tale numquam factum est sed neque futurum est."_

"What does she sing, Guinevere?" asked Laoraighll, whose exposure to the Latin of Britain and Rokk's court was limited at best.

As Nura was not present, translation fell to Imra.

"She's telling the children the story of Torachi."

"The Frankish bandit-king?"

"The same. She's telling them how, while setting out to raid Colonia, he wound up fighting Khunds, unintentionally saving the city's Jewes, who the city guard had abandoned." Imra whispered, so as not to intrude upon Mysa's delicate harp-playing.

"I'd heard that he perished in Colonia," Laoraighll nodded.

"But he didn't. At least, so the bards tell us. The rabbis — the priests of the Jewes — found him dying, cut in half. Believing they found their champion, they went to their most secret magicks, the Qabalah.

"They set out building a man of clay — a golem, as they call it, which they would fuse to their dying 'hero.' It worked — he was healed, but half-man, half-golem. He killed them for their generosity, and terrorized all of Colonia: Roman, Frank, Jewe and Khundish invader alike."

The Ulsterwoman whistled in appreciation. "If true, he must be a ferocious creature indeed."

Joining them to hear the tale's conclusion, Nura nodded in agreement.

"Are there many in Ulster as mighty as you?" asked Imra.

"Nay. I'm the first in generations to have the power of The Hound. The knavish bard Ossian was the last before me that I know of, some three centuries agone. The Hound's strength does not flow often."

_What hound?_ Imra was about to ask, but Mysa was concluding the song, and she looked directly at Imra.

_I've done as you requested. You will meet my brother this very after-noon._

_**Very good. My thanks, Mysa**__._ It then struck Imra. _**Has Rokk already found out? Does he suspect**__?_

_I have volunteered nothing. But yes, I believe he suspects,_ Mysa replied.

The knot in Imra's stomach tightened. _I have delayed this far too long._ Leaving Laoraighll in Mysa's capable hands, she departed. _Mysa is hiding something,_ she told herself, trying to drown out the thought.

Bumping into Sir Garth in the hall, she apologized in Gaelic, still used to talking to the Ulsterwoman.

She laughed at his confusion, and began anew in Latin. "I'm sorry. I have been almost solely speaking with Laoraighll all morning long."

"Think nothing of it. But you are obviously in a hurry..."

"No! Oh, no. I solely need to catch some airs. Would you join me, sir knight?"

"It would be my honor, lady."

They strolled out of the palace, down along the river.

"I'm not keeping you from seeing Mysa, am I?" Imra suspected her favorite knight was seeing her fiancé's sister, and that suited her just fine. _Better that he should look elsewhere than me._

Garth was clearly embarrassed by her question. He struggled for words, but she leaped to his rescue. "It is all right. Tis better that all Londinium not believe you disinterested in the ladies. As you speak more of steeds than maidens these days, idle tongues might wonder!" she jibed.

Reddened, he laughed with her anyway. Growing serious in the silence that followed, he blurted, "I love her not."

"You are this kingdom's best knight, and the king's own sister would be a good match indeed. This is statecraft, not love. Why else thinks you that I—"

She turned away. _I've said too much._

"Guinevere, I—" He said, but she shook loose from the hand he'd put on her shoulder.

"I must wish you good travels to Iberia. You leave after the wedding?" The subject changed as smoothly as a summer snowstorm.

"Aye," he said. _Perhaps before._

***

"So. Have you discovered the answer to the secrets of the universe, then?"

The old man chuckled. "I have yet to find the question."

He reached out for a hug. "How are you, my dear?"

Mysa hesitated, but hugged him anyway. "Well enough."

"Come! Sit and talk with me." His room was dark and cramped, full of papers, drawings, and jars of everything ranging from dead frogs to faerie dust to glistening pebbles.

"So. You have come to court. At your bidding — or Kiwa's?"

"I have left Avalon. I am no longer Kiwa's puppet."

"The two are not mutually exclusive. There is the Teacher's Isle—"

"I work with Beren at times, but between Druids, Priestesses, and the Teachers, I have had enough of Avalon's manipulations of Britain!"

"So you come to the court of the high king?" he laughed. "You'll find no intrigues and manipulations here, _nooo!_" he mocked.

She threw a scroll at him. "Would you make yourself invisible, like L'ile!"

"You came to see me, my dear," he reminded her.

Mysa smiled. Despite their distance, she still saw the laughter in his heart that no one else did. And she in turn, drew out that part as no one else did.

"I saw her. Kiwa. She was here for coronation, and will remain for the wedding, no doubt," she said. "She was polite, of course. We spoke pleasantries, but I... I, who knew her so well, once... I could not... read her. How she now feels about me."

"You left her. She feels betrayed, and keeps you at the distance she reserves for strangers and kings."

Mysa nodded. "I'd have rather seen scorn in her eyes, though, or have her reproach me."

"She'll do neither. You are no maiden priestess-in-training."

"I suppose not. But it hurts, Mordru! She was more mother to me than Igraine ever was! A-And now..." She hugged him, letting the tears flow.

"We all make our choices, my love," he said at last. "You chose to come to me, not your Sir Garth."

"Art thou jealous?" She hoped he was.

"You help keep two foolish young hearts from destroying a kingdom. How can I reproach you that? And," he paused, caressing her face and toying with her braids, "having a younger lover has its charms, doesn't it?"

"It does, you old goat!"

"And Rokk gets his queen, the young mind-mage from the Teacher's Isle."

"You _know_?"

"I remember the _real_ Guinevere's death — I had accompanied Voxv home from South Cymru. Of course I knew. But how will your brother react?"

"We'll know soon enough. They're talking as we speak." Mysa's heart went out to her friend. She cuddled closer to the wizard.

"Before the wedding? Brave girl."

"And to think, Kiwa wanted Jecka to be high queen."

"Why dost ye think that?" Mordru asked.

"Well, it was Jecka's idea to switch—" She stopped herself with realization. "It was Kiwa! She brought Imra from the Teachers' Isle, knowing Jecka would use her! But why—"

"To get Jecka's cooperation," he answered. "It had to seem—"

"—Like Jecka's own idea! Brilliant. Devious... And exactly why I left!" She shifted in his arms, pulling her face closer to his.

But self-doubt crossed her face. "Did I truly leave Avalon of my own accord, or did _she_ again choose my path for me?"

"Live your life, Mysa. Find your path. You can't second-guess every decision based on what you think Kiwa is up to. In the end, you give her more power over you."

She was warm and safe in his arms. With him stroking her hair, she could stay here forever...

"There is another alternative open to you, my good wife," he said gingerly, "Oppose Kiwa. Take Avalon for yourself! Support Rokk's reign by making Avalon his ally, not his mistress! End Kiwa's game before it grows out of control!"

_Dare I?_ At that moment, she searched her soul, and found not one reason not to...

***

"So... You _knew_ all along?"

Rokk nodded. "Well, not _all_ along. Reep, L'ile and I pieced it together.

"I knew, recalling the assassination attempt, that you were no villain. But at the same time, I needed to hear it all from you."

"A test, then," she said. While a weight had been lifted, it seemed the satisfaction was tainted somehow.

"Yes. I make no apologies for that," Rokk met her gaze. "Which secret outweighs the other, maintaining a deception or letting that deception play itself out?"

He said it without malice. For that, at least, she was thankful.

"So. What now?"

"We marry at midsummer, as planned. If you continue to be kind and honest with me, you'll find me a good husband, I should imagine. If not..."

Unconsciously, Imra held her breathe. The room seemed very cold.

"We shall not be the first pair of strangers to maintain a fiction of a marriage for the sake of statecraft. And if you provide me sons, we can live well separately in peace."

"And if I cannot?"

"...We shall see."

She did not need her gift to see what he meant. Once he'd proven himself to the vassal kings, he needed not the goodwill of Voxv, and could replace her with a bride of his choice. She shivered — partly out of fear, but part of exhilaration— she and Garth could—

He was staring at her, she suddenly realized.

"I swear before you here and now that I shall tell you no lies," she declared, not certain why she uttered her words, or the need to further prove herself. "I may not be royalty of the house of Voxv, but I count royal lineage from Avalon itself."

Rokk smiled for the first time since the conversation began.

"Well, then, my lady," he took her hand, kissing it. "There may be hope for us yet."

***

Laurentia sat in the tub, thinking it over.

"What if Lu was right?" she said.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, ever since the _fire_ and everything else thst's happened, two of us have been struggling to stay out of sight, while you played kitchen-maid to Sir Brandius."

"Bishop Vidar and his minions think that the two of you died in the fire. _I say_ let them think so," said Luornu. "Tis better than them seeking our blood as sorceresses, and his minions yet lurk."

"Agreed. But rather than hide away, what if we went our separate ways for a while? You stay at court, Lu chases her dream... maybe I'll go to Rome."

"What?"

"I've heard Princess Jecka say that once her sister Guinevere has settled in as high queen, she will go to Rome. Maybe I shall go with her," Laurentia declared. "I should like to see the world."

Luornu shivered. "But what shall I do without the _both_ of you?"

"Aye, you'll still worry like a mother-hen. But you do that anyway," her sister teased.

She rose from the tub, fetching a towel. "You could _try_ to enjoy court life without worrying what your sisters are doing."

"Perhaps." Luornu saw wisdom in her words, but still held fear in her heart. "You heard what the priest of Apollo said, though. We are one soul in three bodies."

"Forget Regulus! Forget Vidar! Forget any priest-kind -- What have they done else try to control us?"

Laurentia was right, Luornu knew. She hugged her sister, and helped her dress. "Father Marla has been kind, you must say."

"Aye," Laurentia acknowledged. "He's still a priest, though, and sooner or later, he may turn on us."

Luornu doubted that. She couldn't imagine that at all.

The two walked toward the kitchens, where breads and stew were roasting for the evening meal. Only in Father Marla's parsonage could the identical sisters walk around together. They checked on the evening foods.

"Let me introduce Carolus, a Frankish lad who shall soon be King Rokk's court jester."

"Father Marla?"

"All is a-right, ladies. Carolus is trustworthy."

"Beside," added Carolus, "Who would take merit from the words of a jester?" He kissed their hands.

Over dinner, the sisters learned that Carolus had yet to prove his place as jester — and had to do so to entertain the guests at the wedding feast.

The young man, quite rotund, had a keen air of humour about him, and kept Marla and the sisters laughing through the meal — without even delving into his actual routine.

At their urging — and his own desire to have more practice — he donned a costume that made him look even wider and rounder, and his routine of humour, deprecation of self and others, and his bouncing style of dance had them all hurting from laughter well into the evening.

Far away, deep in the woods, Lu felt pain in her sides, and feared for her sisters' safety.

***

"Are you ready to go?"

"I suppose." Jonah didn't sound very convincing, as he untied the boat from its moorings. "Is this really necessary?"

Marla put his hand on the knight's shoulder. "King Rokk believes you are sincere in your oath to him, but there are those who counsel him who have their doubts. Let us settle the matter once and for all. Eh, lad?"

_This priest could make a sick child drink the foulest potions._ Jonah couldn't help smiling. _Rokk has chosen wisely in his advisors. What is one more quest?_

As the boat made its way down the Thames, two princesses watched their departure, but only one could be seen.

"I miss him already."

" Be patient, Tinya. He will be back soon enough," Imra told her.

"Aye. I still don't see why I can't go—"

"Part of the test, as you well know. It shall be just Jonah and Marla. You are stuck solely with me for company, else Jonah be given yet another quest if you interfere."

Tinya scowled. "I know. I just don't see why. He's proven himself over and over."

"And after this test, none can possibly give question; no one at court, nor any evil tongues throughout the land." Imra reached out to Tinya, but her hand went through the maiden's.

"And," the soon-to-be-queen continued, "It is about time you had someone to share woman-talk with."

"I've never been the girl-talk sort," Tinya said, still adjusting that someone besides her lover could see her.

"Maybe it will do you good, then. Tell me, what is the court at Eboracum like?"


End file.
